Twenty Eight Dead Ends
by Dragoness Eclectic
Summary: G1 Part of the 28 Dead End ficlets I'm writing for the 28s meme, about Dead End, the mopey!goth Stunticon. Mostly PG, but a few entries are slashy. Chapters not necessarily related.
1. Angsty

**Angsty Dead End**

I've known almost from the beginning that something was wrong with me, with Breakdown, and the rest of my brothers. No one else sees the inevitability of death the way I do; they don't seem to know that any day, any moment might be their last, and eventually, one day _will_ be the last--no matter what they do, or who they kill, or what you rule. No matter what, someday I will die, and nothing I can do will make a difference in that. That awareness is always with me--yet others seem unaware and indifferent to their inescapable fate. For the most part; Dirge seems to share my morbid awareness of the inevitable end.

Breakdown is always afraid that others are watching him, that they are on to him, and are out to get him. It's worst when he's in car form--everyone that looks at him is someone who might guess that he's really a Decepticon killer in disguise; anything with a lens is a surveillance device looking for him. Since his car mode is rare, beautiful and fantastically expensive, he draws a lot of stares from humans. Cities like New York are a nightmare for my brother.

Motormaster is a sadistic, bullying bastard even for us--and don't think he spares us just because we are his brothers. Someone would have killed him long ago if he wasn't one of us.

Drag Strip always has to be the best, and let us all know about it. All that counts with him is winning, no matter what--whether he deserves it or not. Outsiders think he's a perfectionist, but I know better--he doubts himself so deeply that he has to have those outside reminders that he's good for anything.

Wildrider can't handle stillness and quiet. He has to be on the move, doing something, saying something, breaking something all the time. If he cannot, the restlessness will turn on him, starting with a nervous edginess like Breakdown's, getting worse and worse until he literally starts tearing himself apart. I've only seen him get that bad once, when the Autobots had him prisoner.

We're all broken in some way. Why? I feel the key, pun intended, is the command Megatron gave to Vector Sigma to bring us to life:

_"Make them hate the Autobots and all that they stand for!"_

It did not work as Megatron literally intended. Motormaster hates Autobots--like he hates everyone else. My other brothers hate Autobots because they are the enemy we are fighting now. I could care less--they'll all die eventually anyway. As for hating what Autobots stand for--I'm not sure what that is. What do Autobots stand for?

I asked Breakdown; he didn't know. I asked Wildrider; same answer. Drag Strip just looked at me oddly. Motormaster snarled, slammed me in the side of the head with his fist, and told me, "Why don't you go ask an Autobot?"

"What a excellent idea!" I told him, and left quickly, before Motormaster could figure out if I was sarcastic or serious. Either way, he'd probably punch me through the nearest wall for annoying him, and I am morbidly fatalistic, not masochistic.

It was the germ of a potentially good idea, but it needed polishing. Getting an Autobot to (a) hold still long enough to listen, (b) not shoot me in the meantime, and (c) actually be willing to answer a complex philosophical question posed by myself looked to be nearly as complex a problem as the question itself. Others might have added (d), get away in one piece, but I never thought of that as a realistic option. I knew I would be caught and probably killed in the end. I always know that, and have been pleasantly surprised to be wrong every time so far. I'll be right one of these days.

Without my brothers--and I don't drag my brothers into my purely personal obsessions--handling any of the more powerful Autobots was out of the question. I could kill one, but doubted I could manage a proper, non-hostile interrogation single-handedly. "What do you stand for?" is not the same kind of question as "Tell me where your friends are before I shatter your crankcase all over the highway," and requires a different approach. Surprising how hard it is for a Decepticon to ask an Autobot a single, non-threatening question.

I considered tackling one of the minibots, Cliffjumper or Bumblebee, perhaps. Unfortunately, except for Bumblebee, the minibots are annoyingly tough and belligerent--not good querents. Bumblebee, though...

Then I realized the perfect target: Bumblebee's human associate, Spike. The human was weak and would be easy to restrain, and knew the Autobots well. He could answer my question! That is why I kidnapped Spike.

Really, it was easily accomplished.. by me. Breakdown would have had the screaming meemies driving through that busy suburb with all the humans admiring his sleek form, Wildrider would have been too busy playing demolition derby at traffic stops, Drag Strip would have attacked Bumblebee just to prove himself better, and Motormaster would have attacked Bumblebee and the house just because he wanted to, and gotten the entire Autobot cadre down on his head in five minutes.

Internet databases are very useful to us; much easier to look up an address online than to get it from a phone book. I get more navigational data from MapQuest than from Soundwave's surveillance tapes. The way wireless networks are starting to appear in large cities, in a few years we won't even have to go back to base--or query Soundwave--to tap into the Internet.

But I digress. The point is, I knew where Spike lived without having to follow Bumblebee and Spike around and possibly be spotted before I was ready to make my move. It was much easier to park in the lot of a busy store near Spike's house and wait for them to drive by. Five minutes later, I watched the yellow Autobot drive off the other way, without his passenger. Bumblebee was out of the picture. Next, I pulled up into the driveway of their house and beeped my horn. Spike came running out, expecting a friend, no doubt--he found me, instead. I transformed, grabbed him, and re-transformed, tossing him into my passenger compartment as I did so, then roared off down the road.

I switched to back roads immediately; the only Autobot close enough to respond immediately to a call for help was Bumblebee, and I'm not stupid enough to run right back up the road he left on. Spike was not exactly happy to be my passenger.

"You better let me go, you lousy Decepti-creep! The Autobots will turn you into scrap metal for this!" he shouted, and many similar threats.

"Don your seatbelt, and do be quiet," I said. "Your threats mean nothing to me." I had some maneuvering to do, and Spike would be in no condition to answer my question if he put his face into the dashboard during a sudden stop.

I think it was the seatbelt order that shocked him into silence. Spike fumbled around and found the seatbelt and donned it, staring at it like it were some odd alien device he'd never seen before. Then he laughed, a little hysterically.

"Are you ill?" I asked, not ever having heard that particular tone from a human before.

"You just told me to put my seatbelt on!" he said. "You're a Decepticon!" Spike sounded incredulous.

I tried to find a logical connection between those two statements, and failed to do so. I fell back to my default response.

"So what?"

Spike rolled his eyes. "Since when do you Decepti-creeps care about my safety?"

"Ah. I have question to ask you, and you can't very well answer it if your teeth are embedded in my dashboard," I said as I dodged around a battered Honda Civic and accelerated to cruising speed. I didn't bother to dodge the shiny black Dodge Ram pickup ahead of him, but just ran it off the road. The Civic already looked close enough to extinct that it didn't need my help getting there. Spike turned pale, a common reaction humans have to my presence.

"Furthermore," I added, "my name is Dead End, not 'Decepti-creep'. I am a--"

"Stunticon! I know you're one of the freaking Stunticons!" He was quite pale now.

"Don't interrupt, it's rude. You are correct, I am a Stunticon, and you are, for the moment, my prisoner."

"I'm not telling you anything!" He folded his arms and tried to look determined, but I could hear his heart racing; I scared him.

"I would not make any hasty decisions if I were you," I told him as I rammed a small red two-door that was driving much too slowly in the left lane. "Cooperate, and I will release you unharmed."

"Like I believe that!" He held tightly to the door handle now as I wove in and out of the oncoming traffic lane. "Do your worst, I won't betray my friends!" Pure bravado; he was white as a sheet--though that may have been due to my driving.

"Why would I bother killing you? You'll die soon enough, as will the rest of us. All I want to know is this: what do Autobots stand for?"

"Huh?" Spike's jaw dropped. "You _kidnapped_ me to ask me that?"

"I suppose I could have rolled up to Autobot Headquarters and asked the first Autobot I saw, but I had my doubts that I'd get an answer before my painful demise," I said. "They don't seem to have a decent FAQ on their website, either."

"Uhh... FAQ?" Spike seemed confused, which surprised me. I'd have thought a human associated with Autobots would be up to speed on their own Internet. As it turned out, I'd misinterpreted his reaction.

"Frequently Asked Questions, according to several online lexicons. Really, I'd have thought you have known. You certainly post enough on that forum at the Autobot website." I squeezed between a large motor home and a semi-truck; the former vehicle's driver flinched and went careening off onto the shoulder.

"Gah! You creeps are on the INTERNET?"

"It is a communications network. Of course we monitor it." Something about that silenced the human. "About my question?" I prompted him. "What do the Autobots stand for? What do they value? What are their strong points, mentally speaking?"

"Well," Spike said, looking thoughtful. I moderated my driving to minimize distractions like crunching metal and breaking glass and random thumps and bumps. "They believe in protecting innocent people, like us humans, and in freedom.. and in peace.. They trust each other, and hope for the best, and have confidence in themselves. They care about people, and they don't want to hurt anyone if they can help it. Even you bastards," Spike said sullenly. "Most of them, anyway."

I thought about it for a few minutes. "An adequate answer." I pulled off on the next side road and swung open my front passenger-side door. Spike took the hint and hit the ground running. I pulled back onto the road in a spray of gravel and accelerated down the road again. Ten minutes later, you, the Aerialbots, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Bluestreak, Prowl, Wheeljack, Red Alert, and Jazz caught up with me.

So, Optimus Prime, now you know why I kidnapped Spike. When you get around to pulling the trigger on that blaster of yours, please aim it about six inches down and a foot to the left--that way, you'll get my laser core in one shot.

And yes, I have my answer.

I have no hope.

Breakdown cannot trust.

Drag Strip has no confidence in himself.

Wildrider cannot abide peace.

Motormaster likes to hurt people, and cares nothing for others.

None of us are free; we are chained together by our brokenness.

We were _made_ broken, by Megatron's order.

-- FIN --


	2. Caring

**Caring Dead End**

The red Lamborghini missed Dead End by a hair's breadth; his photon cannon did not--but Dead End's forcefield rendered it moot. Sideswipe streaked on past; his real target was Motormaster, an equally pointless target.

_Why did I bother showing up for this battle? Megatron has a new weapon, Starscream calls his plan idiotic, the Autobots show up to break it, we have a big fight, they get smashed up, we get smashed up, the thing gets broken, Megatron calls for a retreat. I could have just stayed back at base and watched it on the monitors for the same effect--if I cared that much._

Sideswipe's real target was not Motormaster. As the red Autobot accelerated toward the gray semi, he changed to robot mode, jumped, flipped on his rocket pack and pogoed off the top of Motormaster's trailer toward the Annihilator Cannon. Surprised, Motormaster threw the brakes on and turned hard, trying to bring his guns to bear on the wild Autobot. Too hard--Motormaster skidded, jack-knifed, and flipped, throwing up a huge cloud of dust as he rolled. Sideswipe sailed over the Annihilator Cannon on his rocket pack, firing downwards--

Megatron screamed in rage.

It exploded.

An expanding pulse of dark purple light. Sound, sight, sensation all halted for one terrible instant, then rushing back in as the shock wave hit.

Dead End rolled, tumbling across the sere desert grass like another tumbleweed. By the time he came to rest, he knew two things: Megatron would not be sounding the retreat, and Dead End had underestimated how far he needed to stay away from this particular weapon. Half his major systems had diagnostic alarms blinking at him, and.. his forcefields were down.

_And Megatron's latest plan comes to its inevitable end. No forcefields; I wonder how long it will take one of the surviving Autobots to shoot me into scrap metal? I hope they can at least shoot straight and not prolong things too much._

At least he could still move; in that, Dead End was ahead of most of the Decepticons here and several of the Autobots. All those close to the crater that used to be the Cannon were down, if not permanently deactivated--Dead End assumed the latter. Megatron, Soundwave, Motormaster, the Constructicons, the Autobots Sideswipe and Bluestreak, Breakdown--

Dead End focused on Breakdown; the cream and blue Stunticon had landed upside down, half inside the crater, unable to move without transforming--and very likely unable to do so. If he was even online. And if Dead End's forcefields were offline at this range--

_Breakdown? He's helpless!_

Dead End started his engine and gunned it, throwing up a cloud of dust as he bounced across the desert floor. Off to his left, he could see a yellow car streaking towards the blast crater--

_That's NOT Dragstrip! Now, are my guns online, or am I going to die pointlessly?_

Dead End's guns were online. Laser bolts streaked toward Sunstreaker's flank; the speeding Lamborghini swerved and bounced off the hummocky desert grass, nearly losing control. Dead End skidded to a halt between Breakdown and the yellow Autobot and transformed, his rifle aimed between Sunstreaker's headlights. Dead End fired. Sunstreaker transformed and jumped, the shot cleanly missing him, dumping off two missiles as he hurtled through the air--

Dead End's second shot hit him square in the chest. Sunstreaker tumbled to the ground to land beside Sideswipe. Dead End's third shot blew one of the missiles out of the air, and he threw himself to one side just in time to avoid the other missile. Dead End afforded himself a quick glance back; the missile had missed Breakdown. According to his combat radar, Starscream and the other seekers were still in play, and Wildrider and Dragstrip were coming back fast from wherever they'd gotten to. There were Autobots closing in, too--Ratchet and Jazz at the least.

Sunstreaker got to his feet, grimacing in pain at the smoking hole in his chest. His missile launchers reloading as he rose--

_I can't have him firing those things toward Breakdown. Perhaps there's another way... He'll kill me anyway, but if I can get Breakdown out of this--_

"Go ahead, attack me again. Watch your brother die to Starscream and my brothers. Or..." Dead End said in his calm, slightly British accent. His gun was still up, but not aimed directly at Sunstreaker.

_That got his attention! _

"Or what, you walking piece of slag?" Sunstreaker snarled.

"Or take him and get out of here _now_." Dead End pointed the muzzle of his rifle at the sky.

Sunstreaker glared at him for an instant, then grabbed Sideswipe and with a single powerful heave, flung him over his back. "Your time will come, Stunticon." Then he was gone, running to meet the approaching Autobots.

"Of course it will." Dead End shook his head at the bland obviousness of the threat as he knelt to check over Breakdown. He was mildly surprised and pleased to find the cream and blue Lamborghini still functional.

"Dead End, that you?" Breakdown said weakly. "Are we both functional or both dead?"

"Still functional for some reason," Dead End answered gently. "Let's get you out of here," he said as Wildrider and Dragstrip drove up.

The radio crackled. _"Megatron has fallen! I, Starscream, am your new leader. Decepticons, retreat!"_

-- FIN --


	3. Dominant

**Dominant Dead End**

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* * *

**_**Implied non-con slash warning**. Back button now if you don't like that sort of thing. Also, the odd situation here is a direct result of the events of "Bring Flowers" and its sequel, "Get Well Soon"._

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"Hello, Starscream. Got yourself in a bit of a bind, haven't you?"

Those were not the first words Starscream wanted to hear after a period of unexplained unconsciousness. He _especially_ did not want to hear them and then find out that he was firmly strapped down on a repair bay table.

At least it was Dead End's cool voice, and not Galvatron's, that Starscream was hearing. He activated his optics. Dead End stood beside his head, looking at him; above him, Starscream could see the grimy ceiling of some ancient warehouse or hangar bay. No one else was around.

Dead End looked down at the helpless white, red and blue Seeker. "I see you're back among the living, Starscream. It was quite a surprise seeing you strolling down the main concourse of Jewel Downport without a care in the world--but then, I suppose if I came back from the dead, I'd be rather carefree myself."

Starscream pulled at the restraining clamps, to no avail. "I suppose you're going to haul me back to Galvatron, so he can kill me again?"

"Oh my, no. I don't like him enough to go to _that_ much effort. This is purely personal." Starscream could _hear_ the nasty smirk that he couldn't see past Dead End's mask. Dead End bent down close to Starscream's head and whispered in his audials, "You _used_ me and Breakdown for your own pleasure, and then drove him into a paranoid catatonic fit through your own thoughtless stupidity!"

The dark red Stunticon climbed onto the repair table with Starscream, straddling the tip of his nosecone, pinning the Seeker's thighs between his own powerful thighs. "Turn about is fair play, Screamer!" Dead End growled softly as he unhinged several of Starscream's access plates, then unlatched one of his own.

"W-What are you going to do to me?" Starscream said, his voice rising higher with fear.

"Nothing fatal. You were only stupid and thoughtless, not malicious. You probably thought you were being helpful, so this won't even be painful. More the opposite." Dead End's engine revved as he began to probe the interface to Starscream's primary sensor net. "But you will live up to your nickname, Screamer!"

-- FIN --


	4. Kick Ass

**Kick Ass Dead End**

Dead End looked around warily. A thick fog shrouded everything, concealing broken concrete and rusting girders until he was nearly on them. Where in all this fog and ruin were Breakdown and Wild Rider? He scanned the surroundings, but something in the fog and the broken walls scattered and confused his radar. All he knew was that _something _moved out there.

_Better go the rest of the way on foot. Likely to drive into a pit otherwise._

Dead End transformed into robot mode, strode warily forward--and promptly fell into a pit as the eroded concrete rim crumbled beneath him. He rolled gracefully out of his tumble, dried bones and skulls crunching beneath his weight. His gun was already in hand as he rose.

A ropy black tentacle covered with glistening slime the thickness of a tree trunk swung out of the fog and caught Dead End about the waist. Even as it flexed and lifted him, Dead End jammed his rifle muzzle into the length of tentacle near him and fired.

The tentacle parted, hurling Dead End to ground somewhere else in the pit. He landed on something that clanged instead of crunching. Dead End looked down. Drag Strip lay there in robot mode, his shell gray as death, but his optics were still just barely lit. Strange holes marred his chassis, like some monstrous drill bit had had its way with him. Black glistening slime mixed with energon dripped from the wounds.

_As I thought. That thing is as dangerous to Decepticons as it is to organics. We will all die here._

Dead End heaved Drag Strip onto his shoulder and ran. Something large squelched along the pit--chasm or ravine, rather--behind him. Dead End heard skulls pop and bones crack under the thing's weight. He snapped a few shots off in its general direction, with no apparent effect. He ran his radar--the _thing_ wouldn't show up, but Dead End was looking for something else.

He found it--a broken slab of concrete, tilted crazily into the ravine; an impromptu ramp up. Dead End ran up the slab, back onto level ground. He didn't make the mistake of stopping once clear of the ravine, but kept on moving past wrecked buildings to more open ground.

_This looks like the main street of town. Long stretch of clear road, arranged as a boulevard._

Dead End deposited Drag Strip beside the road and tried to open a communications channel to Motormaster or anyone else who would answer. No one, nothing, just the hiss of an empty carrier. He'd left Wild Rider with Motormaster after the thing had thrown a multi-ton slab of concrete through Motormaster's trailer, crippling him. Breakdown had fled screaming into the fog at the first sight of the thing, screaming about "red eyes, all the red eyes, looking at me". Dead End agreed that the thing had too many eyes, and mouths, and tentacles, but that wasn't a good reason to go running off blindly. He and Drag Strip had chased after Breakdown, trying to find him in this maddening, fog-filled maze of ruins. They'd both found the thing, instead.

_There's a good chance Drag Strip and I are the only ones still functional, only he's not. Myself, alone against that thing. And we found out it was immune to laserfire when it attacked Motormaster. _He glanced down at Drag Strip, wounded and dead gray from energy drainage. _Lousy, ugly way to die. Why couldn't Sunstreaker have punched out my laser core last week, instead?_

Dead End's optics flared with ruby light as he heard the ponderous tread of the thing, monstrous hooves clicking on concrete. _I'll make sure Sunstreaker has his chance _next _week._

Dead End shifted into car mode and tore down the street away from the ravine, away from the thing. He skidded to a stop just before the rubble of collapsed building and turned around, facing down the street toward the monster he knew was there, just from the gibberish his radar display turned into whenever he scanned that way. Dead End held down his breaks and revved his engine to near redline--then let go of the brakes and hurtled down the street, accelerating to nearly his full speed--

The thing loomed out of the fog, half as tall as Devastator, massive, surmounted by huge, writhing tentacles like some squat black anemone--an anemone with four monstrous, hoofed feet support its writhing, slime-coated body--

Dead End slammed into the thing at full speed, thousands of pounds of alien metal impacting at nearly two hundred miles per hour. The kinetic energy equivalent of a very large bomb tore the thing in half--it burst with a hideous noise, showering black slime everywhere. Dead End sailed through it, through the barrier of broken concrete, clear across the ravine and into the ruined building on the other side, which promptly collapsed on top of him.

Through it all, his forcefields held.

Under tons of broken concrete, Dead End's radio finally crackled to life. _"Stunticons, this is Motormaster. This slagging fog is finally clearing; report in."_

_-- fin --_


	5. Naive

**Naive Dead End**

Dead End was halfway through having his fuel injectors re-calibrated when Hook finally said something about yesterday's incident. At first, he hadn't said anything when Dead End showed up at the repair bay and asked for a tune-up before the next mission. He'd just shrugged and motioned Dead End to follow him. Dead End had been relieved that Hook was letting him in the repair bay at all, after yesterday.

"Have you ever been told how tricky precise maintenance of your unique forcefield systems is?" Hook asked, speaking to Dead End for the first time.

"No." Dead End wondered why Hook was complaining about maintenance tasks; it wasn't like him.

"It is a unique system; no one but the Stunticons possesses it. Spare parts are difficult to come by, and a careless or ignorant technician could make grave errors in maintenance or repair. For example, if a certain two wires were to be accidentally swapped, your absolutely critical forcefield actuator would be protecting the 5 credit fuse from power surges, instead of the other way around."

"I will take your word for it." Why was Hook telling him this? It distracted Dead End from his thoughts, which were running in morbid circles as he contemplated the upcoming mission and the possible ways it could kill him.

Hook finished the re-calibration without a word. As Dead End was leaving the repair bay, he almost ran into Long Haul.

"Leaving so soon, _Stunticon_?" Long Haul snarled.

Dead End looked at Long Haul impassively. Was he supposed to be intimidated? Either the Constructicons were annoyed enough to kill him, or they weren't, and if not, Autobots would probably finish him off tomorrow. "My business here is finished."

"Pretty brave of you to come here alone. Usually takes all five of you to deal with one of us!" Long Haul blocked the doorway.

"Bonecrusher was unwise to say what he did to Breakdown in Motormaster's hearing," Dead End answered coolly. "The results were inevitable; once Motormaster became involved, we were all involved. We _are_ Stunticons." Dead End decided he didn't care enough about leaving to blow a hole in the wall beside the Constructicon, so he waited for Long Haul to move.

Long Haul stepped aside just far enough for Dead End to pass. "And we are Constructicons. We are six not one."

The next day Dead End found himself a prisoner, half-wrecked, in the Autobot's Headquarters along with the rest of the Stunticons. They were all prisoners because they'd been defeated in battle with the Autobots... after the embarrassing, mysterious failure of all of their forcefields.

- FIN -


	6. Playing with Kids

**Playing with Kids**

Three miles west of town, Highway 90 stretched dark and desolate. The only landmark this side of the state line was one lone traffic light at a crossroads. As far as the locals were concerned, the only reason the county had bothered to put a light there was for "revenue enhancement". As far as the local teenagers were concerned, the traffic light existed purely to serve as the starting gate for impromptu road races to the state line, and the convenience store just the other side of it.

The hum of mosquitoes and cicadas was drowned out by the rumble of engines as two cars pulled up to the stoplight. Thad Miller, in his tricked out black Nissan Maxima looked through his open windows at Duoc Phan in his hot-rodded Dodge Barracuda. "Hey, think that antique of yours can even make it to the line without blowing a gasket?"

Duoc sneered back. "Hey, white boy, how come you don't drive an American car? Bet you a case of Bud your ricer chokes in my dust!"

"You're on! Go on the next green!"

Engines revved--then a third car rolled up beside them at the light, a dark red Porsche. Its engine revved warningly.

Thad looked at the newcomer; his windows were up and heavily tinted. Thad wondered if maybe there was a cute chick driving. "Hold up, Duoc. I think the out-of-towner wants to race!"

"HEY, YOU IN THE PORSCHE!" Thad yelled.

The passenger side window on the Porsche rolled down a few inches, not enough for Thad to see the driver, but presumably enough for the driver to hear.

"You wanna race us? 'Go' is the next green light, finish line is the state line, and losers buy the winner a case of beer!" Thad yelled at a slightly lower volume over the rumble of engines.

"What an interesting proposition!" answered a cool, definitely male British voice. "However, I do not drink.. beer. If I win, you buy me a tank of petrol."

"Fair enough! You're on!" Engines revved--

The light turned green; engines roared and tires squealed as the three muscle cars screamed out of the intersection. Thad floored the Nissan, and grinned; tonight he'd find out if a modern engine and nitrous could beat Duoc's classic with its monster engine.

The three cars howled down the road, first one, than the other pulling ahead slightly or dropping behind. Slowly, Duoc's Barracuda pulled ahead of Thad's Nissan--and the mystery Porsche kept pace with him. Thad was a good two or three car lengths behind when the old billboard that stood about a quarter-mile from the state line came in sight.

"Now!" Thad said to himself as he punched the nitrous injection button. The Nissan screamed and jumped forward, closing to within two, one car lengths, even on--passing! The race was his!

The dark red mystery Porsche hurtled past him like a cruise missile down Baghdad's main highway. The black Nissan shook with the wind of the Porsche's passing--Thad gaped at it. The phrase "blew my doors off" suddenly leaped to mind.

Just across the state line, the Porsche hit the brakes and skidded into a perfect bootlegger reverse, killing all its speed and turning the car around to line up with the convenience store driveway. Thad could only stare in awe at the sheer perfection of the maneuver--then frantically pump his own brakes, slowing down enough to turn around and drive back to the convenience store/gas station.

Duoc drove up beside him. Thad looked across at him and over at the lighted gas pumps, where Dead End waited for them.

"Well, I guess we owe someone a tank of gas."

- FIN -


	7. Greedy

**Greedy Dead End**

"Come on, Dead End, old pal, it'll just be a few days now and then, you get uh, twenty-five per cent cut for your services, what do you say?" Swindle wheedled the Stunticon.

"Why me?" Dead End polished his leg-mounted fender panels, looking up periodically at the yellow jeep Transformer.

"Because I need an expensive car for the scam, and you're the only one who'll work. Breakdown would go postal over being looked at, and Wildrider can't hold still long enough for delivery. Drag Strip ain't the right kind of car, and I'm a jeep. Since I can't get the Autobots to cooperate, that leaves you." Swindle pointed a finger at Dead End.

"Hmm. Twenty-five per cent seems a tad low," Dead End said in his urbane, faintly British voice. "Fifty-fifty is reasonable to me."

"FIFTY? Are you over-energized or something? I'm doing all the work on this one, all you have to do is sit there and look pretty come delivery time, let the mark drive you home, then take off when he's not looking." Swindle sounded like he was about to melt a processor. "Thirty per cent, and not a penny more!"

"Oh, very well--forty per cent," Dead End said, sounding bored. "If you won't go that high, I suppose you could try eBaying F-15 jets instead..."

"Very funny. All right, forty per cent! And they call me a chiseler!" Swindler huffed. "Hold out your arm, will you? I want to check your VIN out, might actually be clean."

"My what?"

"VIN. Vehicle Identification Number. You were built from a real Earth car, in case you've forgotten, and you still got all the serial numbers and other crap." Swindle turned to the nearby computer terminal and puttered about for a few minutes. "Bah. You're a stolen car. Have to fake up a clean VIN; makes you a bit less useful than I'd hoped, so, thirty-five per cent."

"I bet Skywarp would be really amused if you sold him on eBay. Or better yet, see if you can get Starscream."

"Oh, all right, forty per cent!" Swindle glared furiously at the dark red Stunticon. "Chiseler!"

The first deal went down clean as clockwork. The maroon Porsche 928 sold via online auction to John Clark in Westchester, New York, and was duly delivered by an auto freighting service to Mr. Clark's driveway. Mr. Clark enjoyed driving his shiny, beautiful vintage Porsche for one fine afternoon; unfortunately, it was stolen out of his garage while he slept.

The second through sixth scams went just as smoothly. The seventh deal did not go so smoothly. Megatron had a mission for the Combaticons, and Swindle was in a hurry to get the auction listing completed before being dragged off to the mandatory strategy meeting. He made one small mistake; he forgot to change Dead End's VIN in the listing.

...That's why Dead End crashed through Sgt. Harry Mulligan's garage door at one o'clock in the morning, engine howling as he sailed through the air to slam down onto the street outside. One, two police cars that way, a police van this way, with three more black and whites behind it. Two of the police cars pulled in front of him to barricade the street; Dead End sped up and rammed them.

The two police cars skidded down the street, dragged sideways by the impact until they were pushed apart and Dead End drove between them, unscratched amid the wreckage. He screeched down the short residential street and took the corner on two wheels, heading for the main avenue.

His radio crackled. _"Dead End, what in the Pit is going on? Police frequencies just went crazy about your location!"_

"_It's gone pear-shaped_, _Swindle! You got sloppy, they got smart, your scam just got blown wide open. Was getting ready to extract when I picked up all kinds of vehicles on my radar--stuff that shouldn't have been in that neighborhood."_

"_I_ _thought there was something fishy about a cop being able to afford a Porsche on his salary! Figured he was just crooked. Any Autobots?"_

_"No sign of them. Help me shake some of these cops before they get an eye in the sky."_

From his stakeout in the corner of a convenience store parking lot, Swindle watched a police helicopter fly by. "_Too late for that, Dead End." _

"_You _could _shoot it down."_

"_That'll cost you five per cent, Dead End."_

_"If things get that hot, I'll call Motormaster. Then you can negotiate your remaining share with _him

_"Slag you! I hope the Aerialbots scrap your chassis next time!"_

_"No doubt they will. If not them, sooner or later something will."_

_"Threatening you is no fun at all. You'd drive Vortex nuts if he ever got his hands on you."_

Dead End had gotten clear of the twisty little residential streets and was screaming down the main avenue at about 100 mph. Strip malls flashed by, identical lighted dominoes all in a row as the Stunticon headed for the open freeway. He easily dodged the few cars on the road at this late hour; a collision now would slow him down.

The police helicopter dogged him, its skids only a few feet above his roof. Dead End accelerated up the ramp to the freeway, deliberately hit a bump and went sailing into the air--

Transformed in mid-air, swung his rifle up and around, and smashed the helicopter's rotor with one burst of super-compressed air. He twisted, transformed back to car mode and slammed down onto the freeway, bouncing once or twice as the helicopter dove into the ground and crumpled. Fortunately for its passengers, it had been less than twenty feet off the ground.

Dead End screamed off down the highway, hitting 200 mph as he left the town behind.

A scream of rage erupted from his radio: _"Slagging humans! I hope the little flesh-things crash, die and burn! I'm going to squash them! I'm going to--"_

_"What are you going on about?" _Dead End asked over his radio.

_"THEY FROZE MY ACCOUNT!"_

"..._I thought you moved the payments offshore."_

_"I forgot to because of Megatron's stupid mission! So sue me, okay?"_

_"Really, you should keep track of your priorities, Swindle. Which is more important, Yet Another 'Exterminate the Autobots with The Ultimate Weapon' Mission, or moving your payoffs to a numbered Swiss bank account?"_

_"ARRRGGGGHHHH!"_

-- FIN --


	8. At the Beach

**Dead End At The Beach**

Dead End admired the contrast of his dark red body against the smooth ebony sand of the beach. Dark red on black, blue sky above, blue waters out beyond the foaming white surf. All reflected dimly off his glossy, perfect finish.

Several hundred yards in front of him, vast clouds of white steam rose into the sky where orange-hot liquid lava poured into the sea--Kilauea's latest spasm of molten rage at the surface world. Megatron stood near the edge of the flow, his silver form wreathed in steam and fume. Not far away, at the edge of the sea, the Constructicon's ungainly apparatus intercepted the steaming fury of lava meeting sea, diverting it into all-essential energy for the Decepticons.

Dead End stood watch; his radar ran continuously, monitoring all that moved by land or air. He'd already watched the park rangers escort vulcanologists and seismic technicians from the area; the acceptable risks in studying active volcanoes did not include hostile giant robots. Starscream and his companions swung wide, wide circles about the eruption, avoiding the violent updrafts and turbulence of the lava flow, avoiding the flying ash and lava bombs of the eruption itself. This was not a good field for them; if Autobot-flavored trouble erupted, it would be a ground battle, a battle for the Stunticons and the Constructicons to win.

No Autobots rolled over Hawaii's roads; no Aerialbots dared the savage turbulence and flying rocks of Kilauea's air. Dead End's radar would have spotted them if they had.

It just wasn't fair when Omega Supreme arose undetected from the sea.


	9. Jealous

**Jealous Dead End**

_**Warning: implied slash.** This is a follow-on from Rebecca Hb.'s "Jealous Breakdown", which is a follow-on from my story, "Get Well Soon"..._

* * *

Breakdown's angry, jealous words burned with the cold dark acid of despair. Pursue? What was the point? Breakdown would still hate him for his impromptu dalliance with the dead, and even if he did not, even if Dead End found the right words to say, it would all fall apart the next time they formed Menasor. The gestalt bond shared too much. 

Dead End could not conceal the dark truth that he still desired the Air Commander, still longed to feel that ghostly touch along his power conduits. More than that, he longed to turn the tables and bend Starscream to _his_ will. Dead End wanted to pin the quicksilver jet down and make _him_ writhe and scream in passion.

Not that there was any way he could possibly make that happen, given Starscream's distinct lack of a physical body, but Dead End still desired it--and Menasor would betray his treacherous desire to Breakdown. Not that it really mattered; when Galvatron found out about Dead End's involvement with Starscream, Breakdown's feelings would quickly cease to concern Dead End. At least being finished off with a fusion cannon didn't hurt nearly as much as surviving it.

His engine raced irregularly, revving up and then half-stalling with a sudden lurch as despair and anger chased each other in a bitter circle. Dead End leaned against a wall, suddenly weary of the stupidity of it all. Screw it, screw them, screw the universe. He desired whom he desired, and if it killed him, so what else was new? There was no getting out of life alive. Did it really matter whether the end came from Galvatron's cannon, Autobot guns or rust?

The maroon Porsche drew back his fist and slammed it into the wall. Who in the Pit did Breakdown think he was, sitting in judgment of his desires? Pursue him? Yes, he'd pursue him--drive his tires flat, if need be, and _then_--

Dead End's engine settled down, thrumming steadily. Now, where would the paranoid Lamborghini be? Dead End checked the cream and blue Stunticon's quarters first--no one home. Nor was he in the break room, or the maintenance garage. Dead End double-checked the duty roster--as he thought, Breakdown was off duty. So--elsewhere on base? Dead End drummed his fingers against the roster. Not that likely; Breakdown hated being looked at by Cons he didn't know well. He didn't much like being stared at by Cons he did know well, but he tolerated it enough to function.

A black mark drew his attention--someone had crossed himself off the duty roster, and recently--there had been a name there last time Dead End checked. Optics brightened as he focused on the half-obliterated name: Motormaster.

His rebellious feet dragged him down the long, dark corridor that led past storerooms and tool rooms to the garage Motormaster had claimed as his quarters. Dead End leaned against the wall and stared at the closed door.

Engines suddenly revved in a cacophonous snarl; the discordant, gear-shattering vibrations of Breakdown's motor weaving in and out of the thunderous roar of Motormaster's engines. Hammer-blows of metal against metal; Breakdown's cries of pain, Motormaster's impassioned growls. The door vibrated, hinges beginning to work loose from Breakdown's destructive engine howl. Dead End fled.

In the break room, Dead End found a bored Wildrider unbolting all the tables from the floor preparatory to doing who knew what. The maroon Porsche grabbed the hyperactive Stunticon and shoved him up against the wall.

Wildrider's optics brightened in surprise. "Wha--?"

"You're off duty tonight, so am I. You're bored, I'm angry and I want some pointless, violent sex. Your room or mine?" Dead End dug his fingers into the black and red mech's door joint, brutally squeezing the hinge.

"Who needs a room?" said Wildrider, laughing.

-- FIN --


	10. WellShagged

**The Rest of the Story **

**(aka Well-Shagged Dead End)**

_"Heading directly as I could for Faussesflammes, whose turrets were often lost behind the high and interlacing boughs, I entered the forest. There were no paths, and often I was compelled to brief detours and deviations by the thickness of the underbrush. In my feverous hurry to reach the ruins, it seemed hours before I came to the top of the hill which Faussesflammes surmounted, but probably it was little more than thirty minutes. Climbing the last declivity of the boulder-strewn slope, I came suddenly within view of the chateau, standing close at hand in the center of the level table which formed the summit." -- _"The End of the Story", Clark Ashton Smith.

Dead End paused the e-book and looked up at the ancient stone ruins atop the brush-snarled hill. Only by the merest chance had he come this way through central France, ducking down back roads and forested wagon tracks to avoid the Aerialbots following Megatron's latest debacle. French nuclear power would continue to heat the homes of Averoigne uninterrupted by Decepticons, and Dead End had a slagged lifter unit--he wouldn't be flying anywhere until he did some time in the Constructicon workshop. He'd also gotten separated from the rest of the Stunticons in the frantic retreat when he'd fled over the ground while they flew away.

Dead End wasn't _lost_, exactly--praise the American GPS satellites!--but he was alone, and the choice of which road to take was almost random. Really, it didn't matter; sooner or later, the Autobots would find him, and that would be the end of his travels.

_" 'Doubtless a monastery,' I thought, as I drew rein, and descending from my exhausted mount, lifted the heavy brazen knocker in the form of a dog's head and let it fall on the oaken door. " --_ _Ibid._

Dead End knew little of French history, or he might have been surprised that the ancient monastery had survived the French Revolution intact. In spite of the modernizations of real roads where once there were only footpaths, and electrical wires strung overhead, he recognized the old monastery from the story. It even had the brass dog's head knocker on the wooden door. From the monastery's summit, Dead End's radar mapped the mile-distant hill with the crumbling stone ruins atop it.

Smith had changed the names when he wrote the story, of course--but he described it all too well. So, the American author had traveled deep in France; were the rest of the details there as well? A faint curiosity piqued him past his existential despair; Dead End shifted to robot mode and plunged into the brush of the forest's edge, heading for the high hill surmounted by the ruins of Chateau des Faussesflammes.

_"Trees had taken root in its broken-down walls, and the ruinous gateway that gave on the courtyard was half-choked by bushes, brambles and nettle-plants. Forcing my way through, not without difficulty, and with clothing that had suffered from the bramblethorns..." -- Ibid._

The ancient ruins were even more impassible than the author's account suggested. Dead End smashed and shot his way through deadfalls of long-dead trees that choked the ruins, covered with crawling long-thorned brambles that would have daunted any fleshly creatures. Pulpy weeds squished beneath his metal feet, leaving a trail of juice and sap across the moss-encrusted flagstones.

_"...I went, like Gerard de Venteillon in the old manuscript, to the northern end of the court. Enormous evil-looking weeds were rooted between the flagstones, rearing their thick and fleshy leaves that had turned to dull sinister maroons and purples with the onset of autumn. But I soon found the triangular flagstone indicated in the tale, and without the slightest delay or hesitation I pressed upon it with my right foot." --_ _Ibid._

The triangular flagstone existed; it was slightly wider than Dead End's shoulders, huge by human standards. It tilted beneath his gentle tap--far too easily, for such an ancient, decayed ruin. As it slid away, revealing the flight of granite steps described in the story, Dead End knew that it had been deliberately maintained.

"All falls into decay, save that which lies underground? But why? Another entrance, better known to those below--or do they come by air, those who use this place?" The maroon Stunticon looked around the tree and bramble-choked courtyard. "Not an inviting entrance." He placed one foot on the stairs.

"No doubt there is but a dusty vault below, and the author imagined all the rest for his story. No doubt. But what if the story is, in some way, true? What if the lamia waits below? Shall I walk into her lair and be devoured?" Dead End stepped down again.

"Or perhaps something more mundane, yet sinister. A secret base, filled with soldiers and super-weapons? Plunder for Megatron! Or a fatal shot through the core for me, most likely." A third step he took.

"Or the hidden temple of some forbidden cult, where serpent-men worship the Great Devourer and sacrifice stray tourists upon their altar? Now that would be interesting--but highly unlikely!" Dead End descended a fourth step, and a fifth. The flagstone trembled against his back, but could not slide shut.

"More likely, it will be a dusty, empty hole and I shall be bored, and horribly depressed that my favorite story comes to such a mundane end." Sixth, seventh, all the rest of the steps down, to a narrow, dusty vault... but at the far end was a door. A narrow door, a narrow vault--for humans. Two shots of Dead End's concussion rifle, and the opening yawned wide...

As he stepped into golden sunlight where no sunlight should be, and looked upon the azure sea, though the ocean lay hundreds of miles away, Dead End laughed behind the mask. His radar scanned a great subterranean vault--larger, but not the miles of terrain his optics saw.

And as the thought occurred to him, his radar readouts changed, showing him the open leagues of ancient Arcadia. Again the Stunticon laughed darkly. "The illusion is complete! So the author wrote more truly than anyone knew. Did he add to the web? But of course--for it has drawn me in. I even know the doom to which I go, and yet I still go--such a curious end for one of Megatron's own!"

He studied the open path to the palace in the grove, of which the story spoke. "Now why should I wear my bearings out chasing across an illusion? Not to mention tearing up all your lovely grass with my tires and flattening a few trees. When if I were to, as it were, close my eyes and open them, I might find myself there?" As he spoke, Dead End shut down his optics, then reactivated them--and found himself on the portico of a marble palace in the laurel grove.

Two white femmebots of a graceful, ancient Cybertronian style nodded and greeted Dead End in an ancient language he knew not, yet still understood. "Our mistress, Nycea, awaits you," they said.

"So she does," Dead End answered, then followed the impossibly graceful femmebots. They led him through a hallway gleaming with onyx and polished porphyry to an opulently decorated chamber.

_She_ knelt there, yellow helm and fins against shining green metal, silver serpentine tentacles sprouting from her sides, coiling and twisting to their mistress's will. She looked up at Dead End, with the handsome, cool gray face of a Seeker--though she had not a Seeker's wings--looked at him with lambent green optics and smirked in that arrogant way--so like a Seeker!-- that turned Dead End's will inside out into helpless, hopeless desire.

"I knew you would come," she murmured in the same ancient language he had heard from the lips of her servants. "I am Nycea, and I love you." Her tentacles coiled around him, drew Dead End into her arms, and he was lost.

_"'Yes, my son, the beautiful Nycea who lay in your arms this night is a lamia, an ancient vampire, who maintains in these noisome vaults her palace of beatific illusions. How she came to take up her abode at Faussesflammes is not known, for her coming antedates the memory of men. She is old as paganism; the Greeks knew her; she was exorcised by Apollonius of Tyana; and if you could behold her as she really is, you would see, in lieu of her voluptuous body, the folds of a foul and monstrous serpent. All those whom she loves and admits to her hospitality, she devours in the end, after she has drained them of life and vigor with the diabolic delight of her kisses." --_ _Ibid._

# # #

"_DEAD END, GET YOUR SLAGGIN' HEAD OUT OF YOUR SLAGGIN' E-BOOKS BEFORE I TRACK YOU DOWN AND RIP THEM OUT OF YOUR MEMORY BANKS WITH MY BARE HANDS!_"

Hours or days or weeks later, Dead End lifted his head from where he lay upon a bier in a great domed vault. Ancient dust lay thick upon the stone floor; coiled about him was the metallic green and yellow form of Nycea, her tendrils still inserted deep into intimate circuits beneath his hood. He shook his head carefully to clear the languor from his mind, and toggled the Stunticon command channel.

"_Acknowledged, Motormaster. Dead End here--wherever 'here' is. What are your orders? I've been... out of it since we retreated." _He reached down and picked up his battle mask from the floor, giving Nycea one last kiss before he snapped the mask back onto his face.

"_Is that your term for being AWOL for the last fragging MONTH? Why in the PIT haven't you answered your comm?" _Dead End thought he could detect the slightest trace of concern beneath Motormaster's rage; then he shook his head. He had to be imagining that! Dead End was still muzzy from the unending, wanton pleasure of the last... _month_?

...perhaps Motormaster did have some cause for concern.

"_I didn't receive your signal," _Dead End finally answered. Knowing Motormaster, he wisely did _not_ add "because the lamia of Faussesflammes hadn't finished devouring my life and soul yet..."

"_WELL YOU'RE RECEIVING IT NOW! Get your useless aft out of whatever hole you've crawled into and report to base!" _It occurred to Dead End that he felt quite healthy for someone who'd been a lamia's feast for the last month. He was a bit low on fuel, but thirty or so days of physical activity without halt or recharge would do that.

Dead End gently pulled the hooked silver tendrils loose from his chassis. "I must go, Nycea," he murmured to the yellow and green mech.

Glowing green optics flickered on. "Were you mortal man, Dead End," she husked in that ancient language that Dead End suspected to be Greek, "I would bid you seek me again, and leave your tale behind where youths flush with green desire might find it--but for all the pleasure I take in you, I take naught else. Your flesh is as bronze, and your blood the hot blood of Talos. Indeed, you are his kin. My hungers you cannot slake as the soft, yielding flesh of mortal man can." Her tentacles retracted and she uncoiled her supple, admantine body from his limbs. "So fare you well, Dead End, and bring not your kin to visit me, for neither you nor they shall find me again."

_"But Nycea, alas! has escaped, and I fear she will still survive, to build again her palace of demoniacal enchantments, to commit again and again the unspeakable abomination of her sins.' " --_ _Ibid._

_-- FIN --_


	11. Bathtime

**Bath-time Dead End**

* * *

_The Stunticons meet Octane's Harem for the first time..._

* * *

Dead End was certain he wouldn't enjoy Libya. One, he would be stuck on base with nothing to do, no one intelligent to talk to, and nowhere to go--unless there was some enemy action, in which case he would be involved in some pointless fight that would probably get him killed. Two, Libya was hot, dry, and full of dust and sand that liked to blow across the desert in humongous storms, strip paint and choke air intakes. Dead End fully expected to be thoroughly miserable there.

Three, Motormaster, Wildrider, and Drag Strip would be stuck on base with him, equally bored and miserable. With luck, at least Breakdown would find a corner where no one would look at him, but a bored and irritable Motormaster would make up for any possible good points. Instead of looking out for Seekers playing "Beat the Lone Stunticon", he'd have to look out for Motormaster playing "Pulverize the Nearest Moving Object" all day long. In a flat spot in a desert.

And why were they going to Libya? They were going to Libya because Octane had the twitches about his next-door neighbors--COBRA or the IRA or the Hezbollah or some other unpronounceable name, and the Combaticons, his usual reinforcements, were off to Monacus for R&R. Starscream somehow got hold of that information and managed to get under Megatron's armor with it, implying that the lack of support for their most productive non-destroyed energon source demonstrated Megatron's continuing unfitness to lead the Decepticons. So it was off to sunny Libya for the Stunticons via the Astrotrain express.

Megatron's orders had been explicit: "Don't let _anything_ interfere with energon production or transport! That includes _you _and the rest of the Stunticons, Motormaster! Am I clear?"

"Perfectly clear, mighty leader!" Motormaster had growled; Dead End knew that the big truck took personally any criticism from Megatron, implied or potential or otherwise. He'd resent it and simmer beneath the implied insult, and take it out on the rest of them as soon as Motormaster had the chance. Dead End wondered if he could talk Breakdown into sabotaging Drag Strip's engine so the yellow car would be the one left in Motormaster's reach when they all hit the ground rolling.

# # #

Astrotrain touched down smoothly on the base runway, kissing the ground so gently that Dead End only knew they'd landed when Astrotrain's nose dropped to horizontal.

"A word of advice, Stunticons," Astrotrain said from his internal speakers as he rolled to a stop. "Take good care of Octane's... crew. They keep this place running smoothly--and that keeps Megatron happy."

_Which means none of us get a pissed-off Megatron shoving a fusion cannon in our face, _Dead End filled in the unspoken thought for himself.

"Astro-traaain! _Es salaam 'alekum_!" A high, shrill cry filled the air as Astrotrain's side bay door opened. "Who you bring us today? Who guest of _Beyt'u al-Octane_?"

Curious and impatient, all five Stunticons tried to jam through the door at once, resulting in Motormaster backhanding Drag Strip and Wildrider to opposite ends of Astrotrain's cargo bay as the big truck shoved his way past Dead End and Breakdown. The latter two followed on Motormaster's heels. He stepped out and stared balefully at the khaki jeep pulled up beside Astrotrain's nose. Four humans in light blue uniforms accompanied the vehicle--one driving, one standing up in the right passenger seat, and two manning a rocket launcher in the back. Motormaster's optics brightened at the sight of the anti-tank weapon--fortunately for everyone concerned, it wasn't pointed at either Astrotrain or Motormaster. Drag Strip and Wildrider emerged in time for Wildrider to collide with Breakdown, who was stepping back behind Motormaster at the sight of the humans.

"Hello, Talifeyah!" Astrotrain answered in his doubly-resonant voice, and transformed as he spoke. "Your guests, and additional forces, are the Stunticons--Motormaster, their leader; the yellow one is Drag Strip; the dark red one, Dead End; the black one, Wildrider; and the other one is Breakdown."

"Where's Octane?" Motormaster growled. "And who are these squishies?"

"They are Octane's crew," answered Astrotrain, sounding mildly amused. "Talifeyah is their leader."

"_Es salaam 'alekum,_ Mo'tormaster, and welcome to _Beyt'u al-Octane_!" The human standing up--Talifeyah--bowed in Motormaster's direction. "_Shaykh al-Octane _awaits you, but we poor hosts indeed if we did not insist that you refresh yourselves after your long journey--and never has the House of _al-Octane_ been remiss in hospitality!"

Dead End noted what Motormaster didn't care enough to notice; the human crew were all female, and wore white head-scarves--the _hijab,_ common throughout the Middle East-- and veils over sky blue fatigues. His curiosity was piqued; this was more intriguing that he'd expected.

"Astrotrain, Fatima awaits you in Hangar Two. If your orders permit, we would be honored if you would rest the night here," Talifeyah told the big triple-changer.

Astrotrain smirked. "Too bad, my orders don't permit. Shame--I'd rather have Fatima give me a good PM than listen to a Certain Someone's supercilious comments next time I get holes shot in me." The powerful shuttle mech strode off toward the indicated hangar. He turned to look back for a second. "There's some nasty weather to the west. Saw it coming in."

Talifeyah waved, then inclined her head toward Motormaster again. "Mo'tormaster, Hangar One reserved for you and your team. If you permit me to accompany you to the hangar..." She gestured across the field at another large, quonset-like building.

Motormaster looked down at the tiny flesh creature with something vaguely like puzzlement. Dead End could guess why: Humans didn't stand before Motormaster and offer him hospitality--they ran from him, screaming in terror at the approaching end of their miserable lives. Astrotrain of all mechs did _not_ happily wander off at the direction of a fleshling! What in the Pit was going on here?

The big gray mech looked around; to the south lay the oil wells, pipelines and energon processing machinery; to the east and north, the bulk of Octane's base. Double fences with triple concertina wire bounded the perimeter; here and there were concrete humps that hinted at buried, armored gun emplacements. Atop the airfield's control tower there appeared to be a set of missile launchers and some kind of multi-barreled autogun. Very little moved under the hot Saharan sun.

"This place was designed to defend against _fleshlings_," Motormaster sneered. "What does Octane think he'll do against Autobots?" he asked no one in particular.

Talifeyah suddenly raised a hand to one ear as if listening, then pointed off to the west. "Mo'tormaster! Go fast! _Al-Hubuub--_sandstorm coming now!" The khaki jeep and its passengers peeled out and zipped off toward Hangar One.

Dead End glanced in the direction she was pointing--an ugly band of yellow-brown climbed the western sky. Motormaster glared at it and his Stunticons. "STUNTICONS, TRANSFORM AND MOVE OUT!"

The Stunticons charged in formation after the jeep, Breakdown and Dead End to Motormaster's left, Drag Strip and Wildrider to his right. They quickly overtook the speeding jeep, bracketing it neatly between Breakdown and Motormaster. Motormaster narrowed the gap, scraping the speeding jeep and pushing it against Breakdown.

Metal screamed and sparks flew; the driver struggled briefly but brought the jeep back under control. Her veil fluttered in the breeze, and she glared at Breakdown with fierce dark eyes. Breakdown shied away, releasing the jeep from the Stunticon vise.

Stunticons and the jeep skidded into the open hangar together, tires squealing as each desperately braked in time to not smash the rear wall of the hangar. As soon as the vehicles cleared the door, more fatigue-clad people seized hold of the hangar bay doors and started pushing them closed. A small blue and green Decepticon ran between the closing doors, turned, grabbed hold of one of the doors and shoved it quickly closed.

Dead End barely had time to note that they were in a large, well-appointed maintenance hangar when the sky turned yellow, then dark and the wind slammed into the building with a sound like a hurricane. Sand smote the curved metal roof like a tropical downpour.

The interior lights came on, and Talifeyah stood on the jeep and shouted orders in Arabic. Motormaster transformed, as did the other Stunticons, and looked around, his head almost brushing the peak of the roof. Several women carried long rolls of some fabric to the bay doors and started wedging it into the bottom.

Dead End trundled over to the jeep. "What are they doing?"

"Blocking the bottom gap. If we do not, there will be six inches of dust in here before the storm is over," the driver answered as she tucked her veil back into place. Already, a fine mist of dust floated in the still air of the hangar. "As it is, we will be digging out."

Now that he was closer, Dead End could see that all four women carried short-barreled weapons of some kind, and that Talifeyah was wearing a headset and a large, curved sword across her back. Talifeyah clapped her hands sharply. "_La! _Not to be standing around! See to our guests!" She looked up at Motormaster. "Energon, finest kind we have for you! Eat, rest, have a bath--we take care of you!"

"Bath?" Motormaster said, echoed by Dead End, Wildrider and Drag Strip. Breakdown was too busy sidling away from the jeep and its occupants to notice.

"You want bath first or drink first?" Talifeyah asked, pointing alternately at the large wash-racks across the hangar, and another jeep, this one carrying a small stack of energon cubes in its cargo bed.

"BATH!" yelled Wildrider and Drag Strip as they dashed for the wash racks, followed less noisily by Dead End and Breakdown. Motormaster rumbled his truck engine and said, "Both. Gimme a cube." He stepped in front of the approaching jeep and scooped an energon cube out of the back, then drained it in one long draft.

"Good stuff, ain't it?" asked the small blue and green Decepticon as he reached for a cube.

"_La!_" Talifeyah picked up a jack handle from her jeep's floor and smacked the Micromaster lightly across the knuckles. "That for Stunt'cons, Roughstuff! You go commissary!"

"It's the middle of a freakin' sandstorm! I ain't goin' out in that! It'd strip the paint clean off me, and I'd get sand in everything!" Roughstuff complained. "Hey, Motormaster, can I mooch one off you, huh?"

Motormaster looked down at the loud Micromaster, violet optics glowing. He smirked sadistically. "No." He turned toward the wash racks, catching Roughstuff with the side of his foot and sending him skidding across the concrete floor.

Roughstuff picked himself up as Motormaster walked off. He glowered at the Stunticon leader's back. "Slaggin' rusthead!" he muttered to himself. "He's as bad as they said," he told Talifeyah. "Watch yourself."

"Al-Octane warned me of this; we must be careful to stay on his good side," Talifeyah answered.

"Believe me, that one has _no_ good side!" Roughstuff answered.

_"Insha'allah_." Talifeyah shrugged.

Over at the wash racks, Dead End heard none of this conversation, nor did he care. He transformed back to his Porsche form, and simply idled, letting his engines purr softly as the women of the House of Al-Octane rinsed and soaped and scrubbed him thoroughly. They chattered in their lyrical language, and giggled whenever he let his engine purr especially loud, or when one of them tossed a wet sponge at another, or for no reason at all that Dead End could see.

The wash was followed by hand-drying with chamois rags, and a coat of polish, and buffing, and _another _coat of polish, and again... Dead End decided he might enjoy his stay in Libya after all.

_-- FIN --_

* * *

_Author's Note: I don't believe in 'Carbombya'; no such place for such an idiotic, offensive euphemism in my universe. It's Libya. Period. Talifeyah's English is less-than-perfect; she slips into using Arabic grammar with English vocabulary. Arabic does not have a "to be" verb, but indicates linking by juxtaposition._


	12. Dancing

**Aerialbot Tango******

**_aka Dancing Dead End_**

* * *

The mission came apart in classic fashion. First, it turned out that COBRA had beaten the Decepticons to Swift Enterprise's new reactor. Megatron took the main force and took off chasing the COBRA forces, leaving the Stunticons to mop up what was left of the human defenders. That was when the Autobots showed up--Prime, Jazz, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe _and_ the Aerialbots. 

"I'M KING OF THE ROAD!" Motormaster roared with rage (or delight; even Dead End couldn't tell the difference), transformed into truck mode and charged Optimus Prime. The rest of the Stunticons dove into the fray in their usual flanking positions--better to act as a unit than to get slagged separately.

Dead End was sure they'd just get slagged as a unit. He wondered which Autobot would kill him and how spectacularly gruesome his final exit would be--

Silverbolt's lightning bolt took him square in the hood. Dead End's forcefield blunted most of it--before expiring from the electrical surge. Dead End's memory of much of the rest of the fight was hazy, something he attributed to the repeated energy weapon shots to his head. Or perhaps it was Sideswipe's pile-drivers. The next thing he remembered was finding himself a few thousand feet in the air, hanging onto Air Raid's left wing.

"Get off me, Decepti-creep!" Air Raid rolled, trying to dislodge Dead End.

Dead End got a good look at distance between him and the ground, and the blinking red diagnostic in his memory queue that told him his lifters were slagged again. He took advantage of the roll to throw himself across Air Raid's belly and grab hold of his fuselage.

"Um, no. I believe I shall stay right here," Dead End answered. "You are a much better partner for this dance than the ground--and I suspect your companions will be reluctant to shoot me off of you."

"Oh no you don't!" snapped Air Raid as he plunged into a power dive. "No riders allowed!" At the nadir of the dive, he pulled up suddenly. "Ground, meet Dead End. Dead End, meet ground. You two were meant for each other!"

G-forces dragged at Dead End, pulling his fingers loose from Air Raid's fuselage--then his eye caught another jet straying across Air Raid's line of flight. With a twist, Dead End flung himself into the air--

And landed square atop Fireflight's fuselage, which he grabbed hold of with his arms and legs.

"Wha--?" Fireflight squawked. "Hey, get off me!"

"Don't mind me, I'm just along for the ride. Air Raid was concerned that he was unfairly monopolizing my charms," said Dead End, "so I switched partners. Care to tango?"

_"_NO! You're crazy, Dead End!" Fireflight yawed violently, climbed rapidly then transformed into robot mode, shaking Dead End loose--almost. Dead End managed to grab hold of one leg, only to get kicked in the head repeatedly by Fireflight's other foot.

Dead End's memory circuitry reset again. Next thing he remembered, he was plummeting from the sky, watching the earth grow nearer with a certain fascination. "How disappointing! To be killed by something as utterly inanimate as the ground is a most humiliating end. And I shall have--"

"GOT YA! Steal my rhubarb, will you?" The voice of Sunstreaker reached Dead End at the same time as the Autobot's missiles. Two missiles slammed into the Stunticon and exploded, flinging him violently to one side. Dead End was greatly surprised not to be blown to metal scrap--his forcefield had come back online during one of his blackouts. He collided with something metallic that screamed in panic. Without thinking, Dead End grabbed hold, and found himself clinging to Silverbolt's nose as Silverbolt stalled, falling rapidly.

"No one wants to dance with me," Dead End said morosely. "My partners keep dumping me."

"I can't fly with you dragging on my nose!" Silverbolt screamed as he plummeted. In his panic, he had overcompensated for Dead End's weight and raised his nose too high. Too panicked to force his nose down, Silverbolt plunged rapidly toward the ground.

"I really have no interest in such a forceful acquaintance with the ground there," Dead End said as he slid back along Silverbolt's nose to his cabin. "Perhaps you could postpone introducing us?"

Silverbolt unconsciously shifted his nose downward to compensate for the backward displacement of Dead End's weight. Looking down his nose, Silverbolt gave the rapidly approaching ground a terrified glance. "This is it! Goodbye, cruel world!"

"'Hello, cruel Earth' seems more appropriate," murmured Dead End, bracing himself for the impact.

Silverbolt's nose-down attitude lowered his wings below the stall angle--suddenly the silver jet's wings bit the air again, lifting him in flight. He zoomed along, just above the nap of the earth.

_"DECEPTICONS, RETREAT!_" Motormaster's order thundered in Dead End's radio receiver.

Dead End leaned over and tapped Silverbolt's cabin window. "I apologize for dropping out early, but I really must be going. Do try to enjoy yourself without me. Ta-ta!"

"I may just be able to overcome my disappointment," Silverbolt replied dryly.

Dead End rolled, transformed, and drove off one of Silverbolt's wings in a leap that landed him quite neatly on the slope of a nearby hill. Now which way had Motormaster and the others gone? He flicked on his radar. Ah--there they were. Dead End accelerated off the hill, chewing turf and flinging gravel as he bounced cross-country.

If he hadn't been shot and kicked in the head _quite_ so many times, Dead End might have realized that Optimus Prime, Jazz, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe together had a _very_ similar radar image to Motormaster and the other three Stunticons...

-- FIN --


	13. Silly

**Mistaken Identity?**

**_aka Silly Dead End_**

_Direct sequel to "Aerialbot Tango", aka "Dancing Dead End"._

* * *

_If he hadn't been shot and kicked in the head quite so many times, Dead End might have realized that Optimus Prime, Jazz, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe together had a very similar radar image to Motormaster and the other three Stunticons..._

Even Jazz was surprised when the dark red Stunticon came bouncing out of the underbrush to skid to a halt in front of them. Prime, Sunstreaker, and Sideswipe were quite frankly astonished; for one frozen moment the Autobots and the lone Decepticon car stared at each other.

"Motormaster!" Dead End said. "It _is_ you! The way my optical processes are glitching, you could be Optimus Prime for all I can tell--in which case, I will no doubt be slagged in the next thirty seconds. The sky isn't really lime green, is it?" he trailed off.

The yellow Lamborghini quickly recovered his poise. _"This is going to be just too easy--one scrapped Stunticon coming up!"_ Sunstreaker radioed over the Autobot command channel.

_"Yeah, I'll soften him up, you give him the coup de grace, bro," _Sideswipe replied. Meanwhile, Dead End started circling around the big semi that was Optimus Prime.

"_Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, hold off--Prime, I got's me an idea," _said Jazz on the same frequency.

"_Go on," _answered the Autobot leader.

"_Seems like the Deadster is a bit confused--I want to take advantage of dat--see what tha' cat'll spill if he thinks we're friends," _Jazz said.

"_Do it, Jazz! Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, play along--be whoever Dead End thinks you are," _Optimus ordered. By this time, Dead End had pulled up into his usual flanking position alongside the big semi, this time behind Breakdown--or rather, Jazz.

"_What? I have to humor the miserable Stunti-creep? Great. Just so long as I get to slag him later. I just can't wait to see how surprised he's going to be," _Sunstreaker grumbled.

"_Hey, Sunny, this is going to be fun! Just go with the flow!"_ Sideswipe said.

"Which way are we going? I got the retreat order, but my navigational processor is down again. Probably would have driven off a cliff and broken into a million parts if I hadn't found you," Dead End said.

"Just follow me," Optimus Prime growled in an approximation of Motormaster's harsh voice as he shifted into gear and started moving.

"Oh, and I can't fly, either. Someone slagged my lifters after Silverbolt fried my forcefield. I'm a sitting duck, you know. When the Aerialbots come back, they'll hit me first, so you don't want to be too close to me. Hopefully, they'll all fire at once, and it'll be over quick," said Dead End morosely, following along.

"Ah, we'll deal with those fliers if they have the nerve to come this way," said Sideswipe.

"No doubt, Drag Strip, you'll bring them all down single-handedly," Dead End replied. "Alas, I shall be dead by then, having distracted them from your attacks by being blown into tiny shreds of metal."

"Don't sweat it, Dead End--we'll watch your aft," said Jazz, shifting smoothly as they rolled onto the main highway.

"Oh dear--I'm sorry about that, Breakdown. I know you hate having someone behind you, watching, but my cerebro-circuitry is so messed up, I'll wander off and get lost if I don't follow you," said Dead End sadly. "No doubt it will fail completely soon, and I'll just drop dead without warning. And I'm such a mess--all dented and scorched, and I've got grass and mud in my wheel wells..." Dead End sounded like he was about to burst into tears, if such a thing were possible.

"_I'm beginning to see why Motormaster is such a slagging bastard," _Sunstreaker radioed the other Autobots. "_He's got _this _to put up with! This guy makes Huffer sound like a positive ray of sunshine!"_

"_All day, every day," _replied Sideswipe. "_I wonder what the rest of them are like?"_

"_I really don't want to know, Sides," _said Sunstreaker. "_I'm ready to kill him right now just to shut him the frag up!"_

"Wildrider, are you okay?" Dead End asked, the slightest touch of anxiety in his voice. "You're so quiet..."

"I'm fine, damn it!" snapped Sunstreaker. "If you'd just shut off the non-stop monologue, some of the rest of us could get a word in edgewise!"

"Ah, you are functional," Dead End said, sounding slightly disappointed. "I was sure that your vocalizer had been fried, or more likely, you'd taken massive cerebro-circuitry damage, rendering you a mindless zombie."

"Enough of that!" growled Optimus Prime again. "What happened back there?"

"I'm not too sure--things are bit hazy since Silverbolt shot me--or was that when Sideswipe put a pile driver into my head? I do remember falling quite a bit--and getting kicked in the head, and I think Air Raid nearly took my head off with that torque rifle of his earlier--falling some more--someone's missiles nearly blew me up--and I nearly crashed with Silverbolt. It's all very confusing. I'll need some major repairs if, against all odds, I survive long enough to return to base."

"_Bro, I think he's already been 'softened up',_" Sideswipe radioed Sunstreaker.

"_Between you, me, and the Aerialbots, yeah,"_ replied Sunstreaker in a satisfied tone.

"No, you idiot," growled Prime harshly, "did you see who grabbed our target?"

"Oh, that," Dead End said, sounding bored. "We got there late, remember? Starscream was just barely able to track the enemy jets getting away with Megatron's reactor."

Dead End's engines coughed softly, like a sigh. "...leaving we Stunticons, inevitably, to face destruction at the hands of the vengeful Autobots. I knew something like that would happen on this mission; we'd get split up and diced into scrap piecemeal."

"You always think that," Sunstreaker said abruptly.

"I know, and I've been pleasantly surprised to be wrong--but sooner or later, this miraculous luck of ours will fail, and I'll be right about the mission. You'll see--or rather, you won't, because we'll all be dead and not much care about it then," Dead End's engine made that funny sighing cough again. "Just my luck, I'll never get to gloat about being right because I'll be dead."

"_PRIME! Can I _please _kill him now?" _Sunstreaker begged over the radio.

"_Aw, Sunny, you'd be putting Dead End out of his misery! And proving him right--sure you want to do that?" _teased Sideswipe on the same frequency.

"_Sunstreaker, Sideswipe--you know better! We respect _all _life, even Decepticons. Dead End is obviously badly wounded and he's no threat to us; we're not--I repeat, NOT--killing him in cold blood. It's one thing to defend ourselves and innocent bystanders, it's another thing to murder a nearly helpless enemy. Do I make myself clear?" _Optimus _growled_ over the radio.

"_Perfectly clear, Prime," _Sunstreaker responded, slightly subdued.

"_We're not just letting him go, are we?" _asked Sideswipe.

"_No. We're taking him prisoner," _answered Prime.

"Do you suppose they left any spies behind--watchin' us?" Jazz said softly and nervously to Dead End.

"COBRA? No doubt. They had enough warning to make their escape, though I believe they underestimated Starscream's speed and intelligence. He was able to track them. But they're forewarned; it will be a nasty fight. Probably massive casualties; I'll be surprised to see anyone besides Megatron again," Dead End said mournfully. He dropped back, and suddenly swerved right, pulling up behind Sunstreaker.

"Wildrider, are you wounded? My optics are still glitching--I _know_ you're not dark puce--but that looks like a substantial dent in your rear bumper!" Dead End sounded concerned.

"WHAT?" Sunstreaker yelled, then swerved wildly from side to side. "Where? I can't see it from here! Sides--er, besides, I can't stop to take a look! Uh, Drag Strip, can you see?"

There was no answer from "Drag Strip".

"_Drag Strip_, I'm talking to you!" Sunstreaker snarled at Sideswipe.

"_Me?_ Oh, right." Sideswipe took in the situation. "Might want to come up front, bright eyes--this highway is only three lanes wide!" As he spoke, Sideswipe accelerated, then swung in front of Optimus Prime. Sunstreaker pulled up beside him, then accelerated to keep himself just ahead of Sideswipe in the adjacent lane. Dead End obligingly closed the gap, bringing himself up beside Sunstreaker and ahead of Optimus Prime in the adjacent lane. Jazz was still beside Prime on the left.

"I don't see any damage," Sideswipe said. "Well, maybe a slight scuff, but that's it." Behind them, someone honked at the rolling roadblock made by the Autobot formation; traffic had picked up as they neared the city. Ahead, the highway divided; to the right, the direct route through city; to the left, the beltway.

"You may not be able to see it from that angle--it's deeper than a scuff," Dead End said, sidling to the right. Sideswipe sidled a bit more to the right, trying to see--

"It's right--THERE!" Dead End suddenly leaped forward and rammed into Sunstreaker's right rear bumper, sending the yellow Lamborghini lurching across Sideswipe's nose--

Sideswipe slammed into Sunstreaker's driver-side door; an air horn blasted as Optimus Prime frantically braked--

Dead End shoved past Sunstreaker's right fender, tearing off a chunk of bumper as he went and plunged onto the right shoulder--

Too late, too slow--Jazz watched in horror as Optimus plowed into the two Lamborghinis, then hit the brakes frantically as Prime rolled _over_ Sideswipe and Sunstreaker--

Dead End accelerated frantically, spraying gravel as he zoomed off the shoulder and down the highway at top speed--

Jazz plunged off onto the left shoulder, narrowly avoiding the two car and one semi pile-up--

--only to be rammed from behind by someone in a Ford pickup who'd also taken to the shoulder.

As Dead End took the right-hand fork into the city, weaving in and out of rapidly building rush-hour traffic, five jets screamed by overhead. "Now _that_ was interesting! I was so sure they'd see through my little ruse and end it with a few well-placed shots. I am going to die the next time I meet Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, without a doubt, and probably very painfully--" his engine made that coughing sigh again, "--but it won't be boring. Not when I remind Sunstreaker of his 'dent'."

"_DEAD END! WHERE THE SLAG HAVE YOU BEEN _THIS _TIME?" _Motormaster hailed him over the Stunticon command channel.

"_I tried to take Optimus Prime, Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Jazz prisoner, but things went awry and I had to run for it,_" Dead End replied.

"!"

-- FIN --


	14. Happy

**Happy Dead End**

* * *

_**Warning: slash, semi-non-con. **Direct follow-on to "Jealous Dead End", which is a follow-on from Rebecca Hb.'s "Jealous Breakdown", which is a sequel to my own story, "Get Well Soon"._

* * *

Amidst the ruins of the break room tables, Wildrider nuzzled Dead End. Black and red sprawled across red and black; his fingers trailed down Dead End's arm, teasing the joints where doors met chassis. 

"Mmmph?" Dead End mumbled, pleasantly incoherent post-overload.

"You know, you're much cheerier when you're like this," Wildrider said. "We should do this more often."

"Mmmm. I suppose. It does divert one's mind from the pointlessness of existance--a short, fleeting delight before final oblivion," Dead End replied.

Wildrider chuckled. "Whatever would we do without your morale-boosting gloom? I mean, if I didn't have you to tell me how everything could go pear-shaped and kill us, I might start worrying about things." He gave Dead End a friendly slap to the head. "But after you've explained how we're all going to die and how pointless it is, I know things can only go uphill!"

Dead End chuckled. "Glad to be of service."

Wildrider fidgeted. "We need a decent sound system in here. It's too quiet. If only Motormaster hadn't trashed the last one..."

"Why not make your own music? Just load some sound files into your aux data store and play them back whenever," Dead End said.

Wildrider's optics brightened. "Like your e-books? Huh! Never thought of that!" He sat up and scowled. "Where am I going to find some good loud music files, though? Can't exactly access Earth's Internet from here, and Cybertronian music is a bunch of artsy crap."

"Remind me to introduce you to some of my art connections. There are actually some lunatics that collect Earth music and literature--Euphony for instance--and they have contacts. Not to mention Swindle, who can import just about anything for a price--"

Wildrider lifted his head. "Someone's coming!"

Dead End flicked on his combat radar. "It's Breakdown," he said flatly.

Wildrider glanced at the dark red Stunticon. "I've got a idea! You just sit there as bait, and I'll ambush him!" He jumped up and flattened himself against the wall beside the door.

"I'm not sure--" Dead End murmured.

"You're not sure of what?" Breakdown said as he staggered into the break room. His optics were dim with fatigue, and great streaks of gray paint smudged his own cream and blue coat--

CRASH!

Wildrider tackled Breakdown, pitching him to the floor near Dead End.

"What the--?" Breakdown shrieked as Wildrider swarmed over him, pinning him to the floor.

"Help me hold him down," Wildrider yelled.

Dead End's optics blinked; then he suddenly rolled and flung himself atop Breakdown and Wildrider. "What do we do now?" he asked.

"Well, if I thought one of us could hold him, I'd go get the manacles and chains from my quarters," Wildrider said, chuckling evilly. "As it is, we'll just have to hold him down."

Breakdown's optics brightened sharply. "Wh-what are you _doing_?" His voice rose to a near-shriek.

Dead End's optics also brightened. "Manacles and chains? Wildrider, there's something I obviously don't know about you." A low chuckle thrummed through his engines, vibrating the others where they pressed against him.

"I've got whips, too," Wildrider said, running his hands along Breakdown's arms, testing the joints and seams. He leaned close and whispered, "I've also got _cameras_. I could set them up and record this in 3-D..."

Breakdown writhed frantically, his optics very bright. "No! You wouldn't!" His engine started to keen, harsh vibrations that ground through both Dead End and Wildrider. Wildrider's engine raced in answer, and Dead End's thrummed a bit faster.

"But since you're so hard to hold onto, I just can't," Wildrider said regretfully.

"Ah, but you're forgetting Soundwave's spy cams," Dead End murmured softly, catching onto the game. "Watching us, watching you--"

"Seeing you writhe beneath us," Wildrider said as Breakdown trembled violently. "Must get pretty boring, watching so many Cons do pretty much nothing. Then comes something like us, like you..."

"Just imagine Rumble and Frenzy watching us, wishing they were us--" Dead End continued the thread, stroking the shivering Lamborghini around his front-end joints.

Breakdown whimpered and shuddered with fear... and something else. "Please... don't! Let me go!"

Wildrider slipped one hand into a door hinge and squeezed. "Really? You want me to stop? And disappoint everyone's who's watching? If they're still watching--" Wildrider grinned. "They might be doing something else now, holding each other, feeling fields entertwine..." His engine revved as he leaned hard against Breakdown, feeling Breakdown's mad vibrations tear through him.

Breakdown bucked and writhed violently, directionlessly--less an attempt to escape the other two Stunticons than a reaction to the sensations racing through him. Engine vibrations intertwined with his own, every circuit jangled, heightened to the keenest by his own rising terror, tormented by the attentions of his brothers.

"Breakdown..." Dead End whispered as he stroked short mewls of ecstasy from the cream and blue Lamborghini, "...you never told me you _enjoyed_ being watched so much."

"But I don't!" he said with odd little gasps that shivered in Dead End's audials.

"Then why are you wiggling so prettily?" said Dead End in his dark, low voice.

"Because--mmph!" Breakdown's answer was cut off as Wildrider closed his mouth with a kiss, nibbling and nuzzling the living metal with his own.

"Whoa--hey!" Drag Strip's loud voice washed over them. "Looks like I got off watch just in time--and since you're in the break room, it ain't a private party!"

"Mmmph? Mmm!" said Wildrider, still locked in a kiss with Breakdown.

"Well, if you're not just passing through, my shoulder wheels could use some attention," Dead End said, amused.

CRASH!

Drag Strip threw himself atop Dead End and Breakdown. His own race car engine raced as he pressed himself against Dead End, grinding against the dark red Stunticon's hips, feeling the mixed vibrations of his brother's engines. Breakdown's engine howled its dissonance--the destructive vibrations absorbed and altered as they intermeshed with the other Stunticons' engine vibrations. All forcefields were down; fields and sensations intermingled and heightened each other. Fingers found sensitive joints and seams; Dead End's battle mask hit the floor and he found himself exchanging long kisses and bites with each of his brothers in turn---

A certain invisible presence drifted through the room. _That looks like fun, _thought the dead Air Commander. He shook his head intangibly. _No, I'm not getting involved this time!_

The door to the underground garage crashed open. "What in the Pit?" growled Motormaster. "I didn't start this! Break--"

_Yes I am! Motormaster, you are not spoiling this! _Starscream smoothly took possession of the big gray Stunticon and flung himself into the middle of the pack.

"--but I'll finish it," Motormaster growled, wrapping his arms around the topmost Stunticon, Drag Strip. "Mine!"

Somewhere near the bottom, Dead End and Breakdown both had very dopey smiles on their faces.

-- FIN --


	15. Drinking Energon

**Dead and Drunk**

**_aka Drinking-Energon Dead End_**

It was Wildrider's fault, really. It was Wildrider who told Dead End, "Hey, you like local culture? I got some culture for ya!" and all but dragged him down some of the darkest, grungiest underlevels of Polyhex that he could find. Dead End wondered how the walls could be so rusted and still hold the weight of the levels above them; he concluded that the grunge and silt that held the floor together must have merged with the walls, too. Dead End also suspected that some of the larger, gooier blobs clinging to cracks and ledges had _grown_ there.

"So, how much did Spinshaper's friends pay you to lure me into a back alley?" Dead End finally asked sardonically.

"Chill out, Deadster! We're almost there!" Wildrider said, almost bouncing along.

Wildrider was correct; two more turns and they found themselves at a bar--a mere hole-in-the-wall at first glance, but upon stepping over the comatose bot on the doorstep, they found themselves in a large and busy pub. A very large gray armored mech of some kind glowered at them from beside the door, but said nothing.

First impression: this was not an officer's bar. No arrogant, well-polished fliers strutted across the floor, holding drinks and debating art, tactics and politics--though Dead End thought he spotted someone with wings over at the bar. This was a ground-pounder's bar, a grunt's hang-out, filled with mechs engaged in the serious business of drinking, arguing loudly, and fighting.

"Ah, culture," muttered Dead End.

Second impression: dark red and black finish, brightly polished, attracted attention. There was a ripple of shifting attention as those near the door and not otherwise occupied turned to look at the newcomers. The glances were not hostile, but they were cool, measuring.

"Come on!" Wildrider waved an arm at the bar. "They got some decent mid-grade here, and not for those optic-ripping prices like up top. Get some decent brawls here, too."

"More culture," muttered Dead End. "Why did I come along again?"

Wildrider clapped him on the back. "Because you wanted to get smashed and mope in the corner about the pointlessness of life." He guffawed heartily.

"I can do that without getting intoxicated," Dead End replied. "Or getting dragged into a venue where I'm more likely to get caught up in a pointless fight and have my fuel pump forcibly removed by some overgrown tank mech in a bad mood. That's if whatever contaminants are in the local excuse for high-grade don't corrode my fuel system and slowly kill me."

"Trust me, it's more fun this way," Wildrider said. "'Cause when you're shitfaced, you simply don't give a frag."

"'Shitfaced'? Where the frag are you from?" snarled a stocky, very boxy olive drab and brown mech sitting at a nearby table. Multiple arm and leg wheels marked him as a transport of some type. Sitting with him was a big dark blue mech Dead End thought he recognized.

"One picks up the most interesting linguistic terms on Earth," Dead End answered. "Hello, Hammerbolt!" he said to the dark blue mech.

Hammerbolt--for it was the big blue tank mech himself--looked up at Dead End, optics brightening. "Hey, you're that other journalist guy from Shadowlight! The one I _didn't_ nearly have to toss out for provoking artists." He stood up and gave Dead End a hearty slap on the shoulder. "Guys, this guy is one of Megatron's lads from Earth. He's all right!"

"You served with Megatron?" The short brown transport mech said in a loud, nasal voice. "You shine like an officer, but you got wheels, so you can't be a real ranker."

"Hey, who're your friends, buddy?" Wildrider asks, optics bright with interest.

"You already know Hammerbolt, and I'm Casque. I'm with Logistics, and Hammerbolt here is Ground Security--usually escorts my convoys. Who the frag are you?" said the brown transport.

"I'm Dead End, and this is my teammate Wildrider. We're with--" Dead End's visor dimmed as he thought--

"Yeah, I can never remember where the slag they put us in the command structure neither," Wildrider said, laughing. "While you're figuring it out, I'm gonna find us some drinks!" He dove into the crowd, heading in the general direction of the bar.

"He's right. All that matters is that we take orders from Megatron; Motormaster handles our mission assignments," Dead End shrugged.

"Motormaster?" There was a sudden coolness in Casque's tone. Hammerbolt shifted uneasily. Casque quickly finished his drink and put it down. "Slag. You're _Stunticons_, aren't you?"

Dead End tilted his head slight. "Yes, why?"

"N-nothing, just curious." Casque pushed his stool back, like he was ready to bolt for the nearest exit. Hammerbolt seemed in a sudden hurry to finish his drink.

The big blue tank mech glanced at his friend Casque. "We have to get back to barracks--late duty shift." He rose from his stool, ready to leave.

"Ah. Well, then, I shan't keep you." Dead End watched as the two mechs left abruptly, then turned to find Wildrider.

Dead End suddenly had no trouble pushing through the crowd; mechs almost shied away from the dark red Stunticon. It only took him a moment to find Wildrider still at the bar, getting their drinks.

"What's up, buddy?" Wildrider said, handing Dead End his drink. "Your friends want drinks, too?"

Dead End shook his head. "They left very suddenly. Perhaps I am overly imaginative, but as soon as they heard I was a Stunticon, they seemed _afraid_ of me."

The patrons seated next to Wildrider at the bar suddenly discovered better seats on the other side of the bar, or the room. Wildrider glanced around. "Uh, Dead End buddy, might be better not to let that particular cat out of the bag next time."

Dead End's optics flickered. "Why not?"

"Well, after we scrapped that artist and his buddies who tried to gank you two in the alley, word got around. Seems these homeworld grunts are scared stiff of artists--and here Motormaster turns one of the real psycho artists into, heh, an abstract arrangement of parts, and the rest of us make his buddies into embedded wall decorations--heh." Wildrider laughed and handed Dead End a cylinder of glowing blue energon. "Figure it--Stunticons scrap _artists_, and they're terrified of artists. What's that make us?"

"Critics."

Wildrider laughed so hard he nearly choked on his energon. "Which was why they tried to scrap you in the first place!"

"The whole thing was so pointless. So they didn't like what we wrote about their so-called 'art'--now they're spending any profits from the exhibition getting major body repairs done. A high price for a tender ego; in the end, they will all be forgotten and their art yet more of the long-decayed detritus underfoot." Dead End somberly noted that his glass was empty and shoved it across to the bartender. The bartender, a small red and gray mech, nodded and refilled the glass.

The only patron who hadn't moved away from Dead End and Wildrider, a large dark blue and purple Seeker jet, turned to look at them. Ruby optics glowed in a gray face. "Not afraid of them getting revenge?" he asked.

Dead End shrugged. "Does it matter? I'll die sooner or later--of decay if nothing else gets me." He tossed his drink down.

Wildrider looked over Dead End's shoulder at the jet. "Dude, I've met Autobots tougher than _them!"_ He laughed maniacally. "I'm on the same team with _Motormaster_, jetboy! Only mech scarier is Megatron himself!"

The dark blue Seeker scowled. "Yeah, I had an attitude like that once." He picked up an energon cube and sipped at it, like he planned to nurse the one cube all night.

Dead End looked thoughtful and leaned his elbows against the bar. It steadied him; he felt less like he might fall off his barstool. "I was cornered by Sunstreaker and Sideswipe once."

The Seeker lowered his cube to the bar. "Sunstreaker? The Autobot gladiator?" The dark blue jet mech looked intently at Dead End, ruby optics bright with interest.

"Is that what he was? Before my time," Dead End said, vaguely aware that he was babbling around his point. "My point being--" His visor dimmed as he tried to recall his point again, "saying that we've met tougher Autobots is not to take said artist's combat skills lightly--it is a statement of fact."

Shouts and loud crashing of metal on metal broke out behind them.

Wildrider clapped Dead End on the shoulder and said, "Deadster, you're well on your way to achieving your goal of getting seriously smashed--I'm going to have some fun while you and jetboy bore each other." With that, he spun around and dove into the fledgling brawl in the middle of the floor.

"How'd you beat him?" The jet asked.

"The first time, I tricked him--and tore off his bumper while getting him into a multi-Autobot pile-up." Dead End chuckled at the memory. "The second time, he and Sideswipe beat the slag out of me--took the rest of us to get them off me."

Dead End looked at his glass. "'S empty again. A metaphor for my life--empty and gone before it can be appreciated." He pushed the glass over to the bartender for a refill.

The tall jet peered at him quizzically. "You don't look dead to me."

Dead End tugged his visor off and peered at the jet with two bright violet optics. "But I will be soon enough. Next battle, or some unfortunate encounter in a back alley, or perhaps just some pointless, stupid thing like being in the wrong place when another shuttle gets shot down..." Dead End's engine made a little coughing sigh.

The dark blue Seeker stared at him blankly for several minutes. The bartender passed by, wiping up the counter, and discreetly refilled Dead End's glass again. He paused in front of the Seeker.

"Got enough to keep you happy?" he said, pointing at the Seeker's energon cube. The little red and gray mech seemed nervous.

"'m fine, Cartwheel," answered the Seeker distractedly. He was still staring at Dead End. Finally he spoke. "Let me get this straight: you're mopin' about dying an' havin' a short life an' such and you ain't even dead yet? You're fucked up, you know that?"

Dead End's head jerked up like Motormaster had just screamed in his audials. That was Earth slang--_human_ slang! There was something familiar about this Seeker, from the nasal accent to the wing-shape--yes, an Earth jet alt-mode! "What did you say?" he shot back.

The big blue and purple jet leaned forward. "I said, 'you're fucked up'". He smirked.

"You've been on Earth!" Dead End said accusingly.

"Yeah, what about it?" the jet responded, non-plussed at the dark red Stunticon's reaction.

"But I don't know you..." Dead End trailed off. He felt like he was stuck in a memory loop of some kind; he'd thought all this before. But where? Unfortunately, his central processor was not operating at anything like its usual efficiency. He stuck his visor up on his forehead, like it was a pair of sunglasses. "You look familiar, though."

The Seeker peered intently at Dead End. "I've seen you before, too."

"Where?" Dead End asked muzzily, certain that the blue high-grade had corroded his cerebro-circuitry and that he was now sinking slowly into zombie-dom.

"I'm not sure." The dark blue jet mech frowned. "Not recently, or I'd remember you for sure. Not too long ago, or I wouldn't remember you at all." He shook his head in exasperation. "Must have been when I was all messed up."

Dead End looked at his once-again empty glass. "I'm messed up." He shoved it at the bartender. "I don't think I made your acquaintance while intoxicated, sir."

"You are now, 'cause you're shitfaced," the Seeker said, snickering.

"Smashed."

"Drunk out of your gourd."

"Plotzed."

"Over-energized," continued the jet.

"Four sheets to the wind."

"Sloshed."

"Inebriated," said Dead End.

"Tanked," concluded the Seeker.

Dead End stared blankly at the dark blue jet. "Did I say 'intoxicated' already?"

"Think so."

"Conceded, I am thoroughly intoxicated," Dead End exposited. "However, I can not be said to make your acquaintance if I do not even know your name."

"'m Duskwing," the Seeker said, looking a bit wobbly himself. The energon cube was substantially lower than it had been, though Dead End could not recall seeing Duskwing drink from it for some time. "An' you are?"

"Dead End, which is a fair description of my life," he said, holding up his glass of blue energon.

"You drive down blind alleys a lot?"

"'s what my life, everyone's life comes to. A dead end. We're all dead at the end," the Stunticon tried to explain.

"Uhh... and?" Duskwing looked confused.

Dead End's optics flickered. "That's it. Everybody dies. So what's the point of anything? You'll just be dead anyway."

"Yeah, but there's this interval between coming online, and dead. Staring at the wall for that whole time is boring," Duskwing pointed out.

Dead End looked at his glass suspiciously; it was empty again. He pushed it at the bartender, who seemed nervous about getting near either of them. "Hey! Just because I'm a Stunticon doesn't mean I'm a psychotic serial killer!" Dead End snapped at the little red and gray mech. "Though in all fairness, I am psychotically depressed and I am one of Megatron's own professional team of killers--I'm just not serial about it. And it's all pointless anyway."

"Hey! Go easy on the little guy, he offers me drinks," Duskwing said, his ailerons twitching oddly. As he spoke, Cartwheel refilled Dead End's glass.

"You're kinda stuck on this whole 'pointless' thing, aren't you?" the jet mech asked, leaning back on his stool.

"It's the first thing that hits me when I come on line after recharge--there's no reason to bother, it's all so very pointless. We come online, we do a bunch of things that don't matter, we die, rust, and are forgotten." Dead End stared suspiciously at his glass; it was already down by a third. "If I could just figure out where the stuff is going..."

"I bet you get bored easy, with everything being pointless," said Duskwing.

"You have no idea. Everything is so tedious--even our missions are stupid and pointless most of the time. It used to get interesting once in a while when Starscream would mutiny, but he stopped doing that--he just uses sarcasm these days." Dead End swirled the blue stuff in his glass, watching the play of light and color. "I just read my books and wish it was all over."

Duskwing looked at Dead End, a hint of frustration in his voice and face. "Why does anything got to have a point? So it's pointless! So what? Do it because it's more fun than watching paint dry."

Dead End slammed his glass down angrily. "But without a point, without a purpose, everything is the equivalent of watching paint dry! It's just killing time until you die!"

The ongoing series of crashes behind them died down and Wildrider staggered up to the bar, as unscratched and shiny as ever. "Deadster, old buddy, you are seriously smashed," he said, wobbling unsteadily. "I think you've had enough."

"Hey, buzz off! We're havin' a con-conservation--uh, talk, here!" Duskwing snapped at Wildrider.

"Stick a crankshaft up your afterburner and rotate, flyboy!" Wildrider swung a punch at Duskwing, who leaned back and slid off his stool. Wildrider staggered forward and tried to tackle the big Seeker, but missed and crashed to the floor. To Dead End's somewhat drink-fuddled senses, it looked like Wildrider fell _through_ Duskwing's legs.

Duskwing jumped back, dodging Wildrider's grab from the floor; Wildrider hauled himself slowly to his feet, swaying as if caught in a strong wind. The dark blue Seeker lunged past Wildrider, bumping him in passing--or so Dead End assumed, it actually looked like one of his wings and and arm passed _through_ Wildrider--and Wildrider fell to the floor with a crash. This time, he didn't get up.

"Oops," said Duskwing, looking down. "Your friend's really had enough. He just passed out."

Dead End looked suspiciously at Duskwing, then knelt down to check Wildrider--and nearly fell over. "I'm still somewhat under the influence myself," he announced. "Wildrider, are you dead?" Wildrider's optics were dimmed, but his engine was still running. "You're right, he's out of it."

"I think we should go home," Dead End said. "But he's too offline to drive, and I'm too drive to drink." He swayed like Wildrider had.

'An' if anyone catches you in an alley, you're toast," the Seeker concluded.

Dead End's optics lit up. "Why yes, we could die just getting back to barracks. No doubt someone will ambush us for spare parts. Especially considering all the artists we've annoyed. We shall end up as part of someone's sculpture. How droll!"

Duskwing gave him a dirty look that Dead End failed to notice. "I remember where I saw you!" He smirked evilly. "Come on, I know a place you can crash until you can walk straight and fight." The Seeker tossed his head and wove deftly through the crowd; Dead End picked up Wildrider and followed after, much less deftly.

# # #

"Hey, Slog!"

Duskwing's nasal New Yorker tones were not exactly what Slog wanted to hear waking him up from a deep recharge, but he'd gotten used to it.

"The middle of my recharge, I was in," Slog said with some acerbity.

"Yeah, well, just wanted to let you know that the two guys in the gallery aren't materials, they're just guests, sorta. They're just, like, recharging. Sorta. Later." The sense of Duskwing's presence vanished.

"Duskwing!"

# # #

"_DEAD END, WILDRIDER, IF YOU TWO SLAGGERS DON'T ANSWER YOUR COMMS RIGHT SLAGGING NOW, I'M GOING TO SLAGGING TRACK YOU DOWN AND RIP YOUR FRAGGING TIRES OFF ONE AT A SLAGGING TIME!_"

As usual, Dead End woke up to Motormaster's dulcet tones cooing in his audials--or at least, his receiver. As much less usual, he woke up to a massive throbbing hangover--it felt like every cylinder was running subtly out of sync with the others, and that his body had been worked over by both Breakdown's vibes and Motormaster's fists.

Wildrider groaned beside him. "Uh, was that Motormaster or Megatron that stomped on me last night?" Dead End heard Wildrider groan again and turn over---

"YAAAAHH! Where the freakin' hell are we?" Wildrider screamed. "They thought we were dead and sent us to the spare parts bin!"

Dead End finally decided to activate his optics. He found himself looking up at a very gruesome and familiar sculpture--'_Stupidity in Blue_'. "So your name was Duskwing," he murmured to himself, and carefully hauled himself to his feet.

"Much worse. We're in an art gallery--"

"My gallery, this is," said the short brown and black mech standing off to one side. A yellow visor glowed, and two long, sharp chisel blades extended from his wrists. He tapped one of them impatiently against his leg.

"An explanation for two drunken Stunticons in my gallery, I would like to hear," said Slog.

Dead End's engine sighed; he _knew_ it was going to be a very long day.

-- FIN --

* * *

_For those of you who haven't met Duskwing, he's the hapless dead guy from "Stupidity in Blue, Redux" and "Art Appreciation 101", and the somewhat more competent ghost from "The Only Good Robot is a Dead Robot". Hammerbolt and Casque are original characters, part of a group of Cybertronian Decepticon ground-pounders who work together and will turn up as bit characters in various stories. Cartwheel is the maintenance tech who cameos in "Dead Mech Escape", mostly running from explosions. Here, he's apparently moonlighting as a bartender._


	16. On His Knees

**On His Knees**

"Did you ever get that dent fixed, Sunstreaker?"

Really, he shouldn't have said it. On the other hand, the Autobots already intended to pulverize the Stunticons, so anything Dead End said probably wouldn't have made a difference. That the Stunticons had just as much intention of pulverizing the Autobots was beside the point. It was, after all, their job, while Soundwave and the Constructicons did whatever it was they were supposed to be doing with the Waterford nuclear plant.

Dead End howled down the narrow winding road that ran alongside the levee, with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe peeling out in hot pursuit. None of the other Bots followed--they were too busy with the rest of the Decepticons. Even so, pulling Sunstreaker and his brother away from the counter-attack cut the Autobot strength by two formidable warriors.

The road swerved away from the levee as it approached a chemical plant, towers of steel vats and miles of piping weaving about in an incomprehensible labyrinth. Dead End gunned his engine and bounced up the rutted drive leading over the levee to "Flatback Towing, Inc.", then spun his tires on the gravel as he swerved away from the towboat operator's business and onto the levee top.

Sunstreaker nearly caught up with him at the gravel; Dead End leaped forward, his tires sending a spray of gravel bouncing off Sunstreaker's hood and windshield. Sunstreaker screamed in rage close behind the Stunticon as all three of them raced along the hard-packed levee top.

"You slagging Decepti-creep! You pitted my windshield! I am personally going to rip your fuel pump out and shove it up your tailpipe, Dead End!" Sunstreaker evidently did not enjoy the high-speed pursuit.

"Aw, Sunny! Don't keep all the fun to yourself--I want to tear his whole exhaust system out, and I can't do that if you're busy stuffing things down his tailpipe!" Sideswipe mocked.

Ahead, the Luling suspension bridge crossed the river far above the levee--hopelessly out of reach unless one backtracked to the river road that had wandered away from the levee--or unless one could fly. Dead End jumped in car mode, hurling himself into the air, then transformed and engaged his lifters, flying toward the suspension bridge above. He drew his weapon, preparing to fire on the stymied Autobots below.

Dead End made two mistakes; he underestimated Sunstreaker, and he underestimated Sideswipe. The high-speed car chase had come to a sudden halt; Sunstreaker transformed and launched a missile at Dead End. Sideswipe transformed and activated his jetpack. He soared after Dead End.

The missile reached him first, detonating and sending him careening through the air at a crazy angle. His forcefields protected Dead End from damage, but they didn't do a thing about the new vector he'd acquired from the force of the explosion. Before he could right his plunge, Sideswipe tackled him about the waist.

The red Autobot warrior re-directed Dead End's flight, straight down into--

The river! No, not the river--worse--high-tension wires crossing the river! Dead End hit the wires hard, spread-eagled across several of them--

The massive short knocked out power to the entire East Bank, and, in the several hundred milliseconds before the wires snapped and let Dead End tumble into the water, knocked out half of Dead End's systems from the power surge. He blacked out.

When Dead End came back online, a dozen red alarms flashed at him in his diagnostic queue--including the one for his forcefield. With the sure and certain knowledge that his situation could only get worse, Dead End activated his optics.

He was being dragged out of the river by a large... golden... Autobot. Sunstreaker. Standing on the levee waiting for them was Sideswipe, smirking evilly with his hands on his hips.

"I can't believe I had to get in this filthy, muddy, polluted water and wade around in the muck just to make sure this lousy, stupid Stunticon didn't get away!" Sunstreaker growled as he grabbed Dead End by one arm and one leg and hoisted him over his head. He slammed the dark red Stunticon down on the levee shore at Sideswipe's feet.

Dead End rolled to one side and tried to get to his feet, only to be slammed onto his knees by one of Sideswipe's pile-driver punches. Metal crunched under the blow; Dead End cried out sharply. His right shoulder wheel hung askew, half-torn off. He groped for his weapon with his left hand--it was gone, dropped when the missile hit him. He was definitely going to die, and quite painfully.

"Sunny, the glitch's forcefields are down!" Sideswipe said, startled.

"Good. Exit one Stunticon," Sunstreaker said, drawing his pulse rifle.

Dead End lunged, tackling Sunstreaker around the waist. Death would claim him very soon, Dead End was sure, but he didn't intend to meet it laying down. He was a Stunticon; he'd go out fighting. It would be more interesting that way.

Sunstreaker smashed an armored fist into Dead End's wounded shoulder; the Stunticon shuddered in pain and loosened his hold--then twisted and grabbed hold of Sunstreaker's rifle with both hands. He yanked it out of the yellow Autobot's grip just as Sideswipe pulverized his back with a series of piledriver blows.

Armored glass shattered and crazed; Dead End's roof collapsed. He screamed in pain, but did not let go of the rifle. Dead End dropped to his knees, and then, unable to balance from damage to his gyros, fell over into the mud at the river's edge.

Far too many red lights blinked in his diagnostic queue. Dead End tried to roll, to raise Sunstreaker's rifle and fire at one of them, but nothing happened--he sprawled chest-down, his head turned to one side so he had a good view of the mud and grass three inches from his optics. Pain screamed at him when he tried to move, act. Sunstreaker's rifle was trapped under his body and probably bent, he noted with a small shred of satisfaction.

A big yellow foot crushed the grass blades in front of Dead End's optics. Dead End tried to focus on it, and the words being spoken. They might be important--not that he could do anything about it. "STASIS LOCK IMMINENT" blazed across his internal display and muttered in his ear.

That annoyed Dead End. He wanted to _experience_ his death, not have it sneak up on him while he was in stasis lock. Not that he wanted to die now anyway--his bath in the river had covered him with even more muck and algae than Sunstreaker now sported and the idea of being _found_ in such a condition infuriated Dead End. It was one thing to be tragically broken and blasted from one's last battle--it was another to look like something dredged out of the river after several weeks of getting waterlogged!

Between Sideswipe's beating and his brief affair with the high-tension wires, almost none of Dead End's motor systems were working. He couldn't transform. His radio was out. His combat radar was out. His emergency beacon... was fried.

_Idiot!_ Dead End thought to himself, _Given all the possible ways to die, I knew the chances were it would not be to my liking. And it won't really matter once I'm dead..._

_...but it matters, to me, _now.

A yellow hand reached down and turned Dead End's head so his optics met Sunstreaker's. Ice blue optics looked into dimming violet ones.

"Sideswipe, give me your rifle," Sunstreaker said, and his voice was as cold as space. Sideswipe handed the golden Autobot his photon rifle; Sunstreaker took it and carefully rested the muzzle against Dead End's head--

Dead End thought he heard the snap-snap-snap of an auto-laser, and the ragged snarl of Breakdown's engine, then Sunstreaker's finger tightened on the trig--

STASIS LOCK.

Click.

Sunstreaker stared in horror at the non-functional rifle in his hands as the ragged howl of Breakdown's engine rose over everything.

-- FIN --


	17. Horny

**Horny Dead End**

"Y'know, Deadster, I'm usually the one who comes back from missions with the weird stuff," Wildrider observed as he ran around Dead End, looking him over from various angles. The dark red Porsche rested in the middle of the Nemesis' ready room, apparently undamaged, but festooned with a variety of ornaments, ranging from three sets of antlers on his back bumper to a longhorn skull sporting a magnificent set of horns fastened to the center of Dead End's grill. The horns spread nearly as wide as Dead End's own hood, and curved forward in wicked points. In between front and back bumper, there was a small rodent skull attached to his radio antenna, and what appeared to be dinosaur fossils in his rear windshield.

"It's a long story," Dead End said, almost apologetically. "And if I hadn't also gotten mode-locked, you'd never know about this."

Wildrider fingered the horns. "Could these be used as weapons?"

"Too brittle, I think. Only thing you could hurt would be squishies, and they're already fragile enough to, er, squish. Wildrider, could you _please_ get that mode lock off me before someone else sees me?"

Wildrider cackled and jumped from one foot to another. "Only if you promise to tell me how you got like this!"

Dead End's engine made a soft sighing noise. "Oh, very well. But I shan't give you the long version now--it'll have to wait until off-duty. The mode lock?"

Wildrider ran one fingertip around the edge of the mode-lock. "What's the short version?"

"I was mode-locked and had to hide from the Aerialbots, and there was this local cowboy festival and... well, it gets complicated. Let's just say I, er, volunteered my assistance as a way of hiding, and there were, er, well, costuming requirements." Dead End sounded more resigned than embarassed.

Wildrider laughed so hard he could barely unscrew the mode-lock from Dead End's fuel port. "Costuming. Requirements." He fell against Dead End, laughing again.

"What are you lunatics doing that's taking so long?" Starscream's shrill voice rang out as he stepped through the inner door. "This room should have been--" The red and blue Air Commander stared at the skull- and antler-adorned Stunticon, accompanied by the hysterically laughing one.

"Never mind, carry on." Starscream turned on his heel and left, muttering something that sounded like "They really are lunatics".

-- FIN --


	18. Daring

**Art Depreciation**

**_aka Daring Dead End_**

"I wish Megatron had left us on Earth," grumbled Drag Strip, hosing off the day's accumulation of dust from his chassis. "Cybertron is just plain boring!" The Stunticons had been transferred to Cybertron but a few weeks before, and were still settling in to their quarters and new duties.

"Cybertron? Boring?" Dead End said in a tone of mild surprise. He'd already washed the day's dirt off and was applying a new coat of polish.

"Yes, boring! No Earth cars to crash bumpers into, hardly any Autobots still on planet to race down and trash, no decent highways, too much stupid politics! Can't do this, can't do that because it would encroach on somebody-or-other's turf--you know what I mean," Drag Strip snarled.

"No humans looking at me," tossed in Breakdown, who was just finishing off his coat of polish. His cream and blue shell gleamed and reflected like a mirror.

Wildrider laughed, jump-kicked off a wall, and bounced to the floor again. "Just let Motormaster know you're bored. I'm _sure_ he'll find something to entertain ya!"

"I'm not _that_ bored," answered Drag Strip, digging out his own wax bottle.

"You could try checking out local society and culture--learn something about your own planet," said Dead End in his vaguely bored, aristocratic voice.

"Are you suggesting I don't _know_ about my own world?" Drag Strip said, challenge in his voice.

Dead End put down the jar of polish and wandered over to a computer terminal. "Let's see.. how much do you know about the art scene here?"

"Enough to get by," Drag Strip blustered.

Dead End tilted his head and looked speculatively at Drag Strip. "In that case, care to join me at an art exhibition tomorrow? I'm writing up some reviews of local art and artists for _Battlefleet Noctis_."

"The official unofficial Decepticon entertainment zine? How do you rate writing for them?" Drag Strip asked, sneering slightly.

"I can string sentences together coherently and express an intelligent opinion. That, and they have a shortage of willing art critics," answered Dead End. "Possibly because artists are a temperamental lot who do not handle criticism well."

"I'm literate!" Drag Strip snapped. "Who's the editor? You said he had a shortage of reviewers--I bet I can write a better review than you can!"

"His name's Counterpunch, and like the rest of the staff, editing is just a collateral duty. You'd better catch him before he goes out in the field."

# # #

The exhibition occupied a recently overhauled former warehouse several levels down, at the top of the neutral quarter in Polyhex. After nearly twenty years, enough energon was flowing from Earth to not only fuel the Decepticon conquest of Cybertron, but to bring some semblance of life back to the world. No longer did Decepticons have to live as Spartan soldiers in their barracks, content with bare walls and survival rations; now, they enjoyed the fruits of victory.

This night was the gala opening of Shadowlight, the first commercial gallery to open since before the Great Shutdown. Every artist, art fancier, and art collector worthy of the name was represented, coming from cities and strongholds all around Cybertron. To celebrate the occasion, the secretive owners of Shadowlight had arranged an exhibition of works by selected artists, well-known in their fields. Almost all exhibited works were for sale, and most of the artists themselves attended.

A couple of heavy armored mechs politely greeted visitors, checking identities against invitations; 'gala opening' did not mean 'any random riffraff'. One of them, a dark blue tank mech, looked at Dead End suspiciously as he checked his invitation.

"Haven't seen you around before," the blue Decepticon said. He was solidly built, almost square in his proportions; the long barrel of a tank's cannon peeked over his shoulder. His companion, a dull red armored car mech, looked on impassively, any expression hidden by a mask. His head made little sharp nods from side-to-side as he scanned the incoming visitors with bright optics. The blue tank mech regarded the invitation with some amusement. "Dead End, and," he glanced at Dead End's canary-yellow companion, "Drag Strip. Art reviewers. Huh."

Drag Strip drummed his fingers impatiently against one of his door panels. Dead End nodded in acknowledgment. "We have only recently been re-assigned to Cybertron. And yourselves?"

"You're part of Megatron's crew from Earth?" The blue mech's tone suddenly sounded more respectful. "Lucky you. I'm Hammerbolt, and this here's Red Axle. We've been with Shockwave's ground security forces--and are part of the security for tonight's little party. Your ID checks out--rules of engagement for tonight: one, in the gallery, verbal assaults _only; _two, you break it, you bought it three, outside, no killings out front or close enough to be connected with Shadowlight. Got that? Fine, go on in." He waved at the main gallery. Dead End nodded again, and continued inside with Drag Strip.

A large sculpture dominated the entrance--a curious assemblage of Autobot shells, welded together, faces still twisted in fear and pain. After a few seconds, Dead End realized that it was a large chair, suitable for a mech the size of Astrotrain or Megatron. The title plaque said simply, "Throne". The artist was not identified. Several mechs stood around the piece talking, creating a bottleneck of sorts.

The dark red Porsche tried to sidle past, but was blocked by Drag Strip, who stopped to stare at the piece. "Oh, that's cute," the yellow race-car said sardonically. "Weld a bunch of Autobots together and call it 'art'." His engines coughed contemptuously.

A deep purple Seeker with brilliant cyan trim turned from the little group to look at Drag Strip. "I thought security was supposed to keep the riff-raff out!" His voice was sharp and arrogant.

Drag Strip smirked and looked the purple Seeker up and down. "Guess not--they let _you _in here."

The Seeker's optics brightened. "Who are _you_? I've never seen you before," he sneered.

Dead End felt the faint, familiar tingle that signaled Drag Strip arming his forcefields. "_Rules of engagement, Drag Strip!" _he radioed the yellow Stunticon over Stunticon primary combat channel. "_Those two at the door aren't the only security."_

"_I'm not starting it, so if he keeps that plasma rifle at his hip where it belongs, I won't feed it to him," _Drag Strip replied with an evil chuckle.

"_Just a reminder. Dying in a free-for-all at the art gallery would be damn embarrassing--although it has a certain style to it. FYI, that's one of Scrapper's pieces. He did one just like it for Blitzwing once," _Dead End replied.

Drag Strip chuckled. "Me? I'm an art reviewer for _Battlefleet Noctis_. You got any art worth reviewing, plum wings? Don't tell me that piece is yours, I know better."

"_And if you're going to play Taunt the Seeker, could you step to one side so I can see the rest of the slagging gallery?"_

Drag Strip stepped forward, deliberately crowding the purple and bright cyan jet--and letting Dead End and other guests past. The purple Seeker stepped back, his mouth twisted into an expression of disgust.

"A _critic?_" Several heads in the group turned at the Seeker's shrill exclamation. "Do you have any idea who _I _am?"

"Do I _care_ who you are?" Drag Strip countered. "Do you actually have anything worth looking at here? If not, you're just another loudmouthed flyboy."

The conversation faded away behind him as Dead End strolled through the main gallery, quickly surveying the crowd and the pieces therein. Once he got a good idea of what was here, he planned to take the time to study the pieces that interested him in more detail. He also looked to see what the rest of the crowd found interesting, and listened to find out why.

* * *

_"Throne" by Scrapper. The piece is a distinctive vivincorporated metalwork that makes a subtle political statement. It is reminiscent of a now-destroyed sculpture built as an actual throne for the triple-changer Blitzwing, during his abortive takeover of Decepticon command from Megatron. That original piece was constructed from the Autobots defeated by Blitzwing with some key assistance by the Constructicons. This piece appears to be an homage to that original, yet with a twist; the Autobots constituting this newer piece were defeated by Megatron himself. Thus the artist informs us of his loyalty to Megatron, while simultaneously reminding the viewer of the value of the Constructicons as both combatants and artists. -- D.E._

* * *

_Title: "Throne"_

_Artist: Scrapper_

_Media: mostly-dead Autobots_

_Welding a bunch of defeated Autobots together to make a suck-up tribute for Megatron isn't what I'd call art, but there's no accounting for tastes. Scrapper's hoping we'll all forget the prototype for this piece, when he was sucking up to Blitzwing during that Con's less-than-successful takeover. Scrapper, you'd be better off just not building any reminders of that particular less-than-stellar maneuver. -- D.S. _

* * *

Large sculptures occupied the center and alcoves; smaller sculptures, imagery, light sculptures and other small pieces adorned the walls. Whoever had laid out the gallery had a good grasp of architecture and aesthetics; Dead End added a note to that effect to his internal note-file. His note-file would be getting a lot of entries tonight. 

A peach-colored femmebot strolled by with a tray of oil-and-electrum-filled steel truffles; Dead End discreetly snatched up a few as she passed. Esoterica catered this gala, and free samples of his exotic and expensive confections were simply not to missed. Dead End stashed them in his subspace weapons rack for later; one for him, and one for Breakdown.

A dimly lit side gallery caught Dead End's attention, as it apparently had others'; quite a few mechs moved steadily in and out of the gallery. He moved to take a look.

Another large sculpture greeted him; it depicted an olive-drab tracked vehicle Transformer partially transformed, sprawled in blasted ruin. A Decepticon insignia was plainly visible, as was the broken communicator still clutched in the dead warrior's hand, and the expression of surprise on the dead face. A small plaque at the base identified the piece though not the artist: "_Friendly Fire Isn't_".

Dead End chuckled quietly; "How true!" he said to himself. As he leaned over to inspect the piece more closely, Dead End realized that the sculpture was not purely a sculpture. He turned on his combat radar to be sure... yes, the dead Transformer in the sculpture was, indeed, a dead Transformer, not a mere metalwork image.

He looked around the small gallery--all the pieces depicted dead mechs in one form of death or another. Most had been carved into graceful, flowing abstract metalwork sculptures by some sharp, single-bladed weapon. Most of those appeared to be Autobots, excepting a couple of unmarked neutrals, and at the back of the gallery, one dark blue Decepticon jet. The face of every subject was marked by death--there was surprise, and pain, and fear, and sometimes all at once.

Dead End's violet optics burned brightly in that dim gallery as he stood there, rocked to the core. Someone else who understood the utter futility of it all! Someone else who saw so clearly the end that awaited every mech--and moreover, tried to show that vision to everyone. Who was this artist who spoke to Dead End's very spark?

"Your first time viewing a Slog exhibition, Dead End?" asked a clipped voice behind him. Dead End turned to see a very familiar artillery mech studying "Friendly Fire Isn't".

"Onslaught!" Dead End regarded him curiously. "I did not know you were an art connoisseur."

"Nor would I have thought the same of two Stunticons, save that I know you're here on a journalism pass," Onslaught answered, and Dead End realized that the Combaticon was part of the internal security team.

"But," he added, "I have always had a certain appreciation for the arts. The tactics and strategies of abstract communication are nearly as interesting as those of combat--particularly when mixed with combat, as Slog's art is."

"Slog," Dead End repeated. "So he is the genius behind these sculptures. Is he here tonight?"

"I believe so," Onslaught said, a tone of amusement in his voice. "No doubt he is circulating about. He's hard to mistake, but easy to miss--smaller than a minibot, in brown and tan."

"There you are!" the loud voice of Drag Strip called out to Dead End. "Figures I'd find you among the slogisms. They're as morbid as you are!"

"I rather like them. First pieces I've seen yet that impress me," Dead End replied.

"You would," Drag Strip said. "Hey, Ons! What brings you here, or should I ask?"

"Art appreciation," Onslaught said, a subtle dryness in his tone.

_"..and internal security," _Dead End warned Drag Strip over their private comm channel.

"How did you fare with 'Plumwings'?" Dead End asked Drag Strip.

"Some short guy who talks like a Dinobot, only smarter, pointed out to Spinshaper--that's 'Plumwings' real name--that 'reviewer' is not the same as 'critic' and that all publicity is good publicity. Actually, he said it more like 'A critic, reviewer is not. Publicity, reviews are. Will be your name and art mentioned'. After that, the dude coughed up his name and told me where to find his art. I'm off to take a look at it, but while I'm here, might as well take in Slog's pieces."

"I don't suppose you've seen Slog himself? Supposedly short, brown and tan," asked Dead End.

"Sounds like Dinobot-grammar guy; might have been, that bunch of jabbering corbies listened to him real respectfully."

* * *

_Title: "Friendly Fire Isn't"_

_Artist: Slog_

_Media: dead mech, metalwork._

_This one's a hit favorite among ground-pounders--it graphically demonstrates one of the truisms of battle: when high explosives are being tossed hither and yon with gay abandon, it's about as likely to hit _you _as the enemy. Being killed by your own side just plain sucks. _

_Slog's sculpture in general is very accessible--his message is about as subtle as smacking you between the optics with an I-beam while screaming "WAR IS HELL!" at the max of his vocalizer. It's also a message everybody who's been caught in a firefight can understand without any extra 'interpretation'. Check it out for yourself, and you'll see what I mean. -- D.S._

* * *

Drag Strip gave "_Friendly Fire Isn't_" a last long look, then glanced at Onslaught. "Funny how this guy reminds me of one of you. Anyone you knew?" 

"No. He was after my time," said Onslaught, a distinct chill in his tone.

Drag Strip, being Drag Strip, continued on obliviously. "Yeah, well, accidentally getting blasted by your own guys--sucks to be him. I remember when Ramjet nearly trashed half the team because of that Autodork Smogscreen--"

"How do you know this--" Onslaught gestured at the dead mech, "was an accident?" His tone was cold enough for even Drag Strip to pick up on it.

"Meaning like he might have been fragged by his own side?" Drag Strip smirked.

"Read into that what you will. I've noticed over the years that 'friendly fire' _accidents_ seem to happen to those most deserving them," Onslaught said, then turned on his heel and walked away.

Drag Strip watched the Combaticon leave. In a puzzled tone he asked, "What was that all about?"

There's more than one meaning to 'Friendly fire isn't'," answered Dead End.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm going to check out Spinshaper's stuff, and the Arbiter sculpture in the Sigma gallery. You coming?"

"I'll be along in a bit. I want to look at these some more," Dead End replied.

"Eh, you would! Just don't forget why we're here--or do. Just means I'll get all the reviews published instead of you getting some," Drag Strip said, snickering.

"I won't," answered Dead End as Drag Strip walked off.

The dark red and black Stunticon strolled to the back of the gallery--there was something about the jet that caught his eye. It was a Decepticon jet, but not just any jet--there was something different and hauntingly familiar about the outlines of the dark blue and dusky purple Seeker. It looked too much like Skywarp.

Yes, that was it. This was no Cybertronian pyramid jet; it had an Earth jet mode. Dead End wondered; how many of those could there be? This one had been to Earth with Megatron, and had fallen before the Stunticons were created. Dead End had not known him, yet this Decepticon's death was eerily close in time and space to him.

"Had you a name, my friend?" Dead End whispered, his optics dimming he studied _"Stupidity in Blue". _The dark red Stunticon reached out hesitantly to touch the twisted filigree that had once been the jet's nosecone. "Or is it forgotten, as all names are in the end? Did you fly with Starscream and Thundercracker? Did they know you? Did you fly Earth's blue skies and feel those winds over your wings?"

Dead End's hand dropped back to his side. "And in the end, it mattered not all. Here you are, beautiful, elegant, and dead. You can give me no answers save the final one, and I already know that. As you are, so shall I someday be--so shall we all."

* * *

_"Stupidity in Blue", by Slog. Unlike most of Slog's pieces, this particular slogism was created from a Decepticon Seeker jet. As such, it reminds us that the same fate awaits us all, Decepticon, Neutral, and Autobot alike. Whether it be in combat ("Stupidity in Blue", "Friendly Fire Isn't"), or execution in the Smelting Pools ("Futility of Dreams"), or inevitable decay ("Futility 16"), death stands revealed in all its horror and inevitability when Slog rips away the veil of distance and faulty memory and rationalization. Many find his work disturbing, or interpret it as mere triumphalism. "Stupidity in Blue" should remind one that slogism is not triumphalism. It is an unpleasant truth shown to unwilling optics--and like most unpleasant truths, reviled for being the truth, or rationalized away with a falsehood. -- D.E._

* * *

When Dead End finally pulled himself away from Slog's combat sculptures, Drag Strip was nowhere in sight. Now where would his partner-in-art-crime have gotten to? Dead End pulled up the layout and program for tonight's gala from his aux data store... Drag Strip had mentioned Spinshaper's art, and something in the Sigma Gallery. Over that way, somewhere. 

Dead End wandered vaguely in that direction, taking in all the sights and sounds and other sensations. There was a dark gallery devoted to light sculptures--some holographic images, others abstracts of color and light and interference patterns. There were magnetic sculptures--subtly shaped metal shards arranged by intertwined magnetic fields. Dead End found these technically interesting, but no more--none of the imagery had anything to say to him, and he added notes to that effect.

Spinshaper's sculptures were not in the Sigma gallery, but in one of the side galleries along with another artist's sculptures. Drag Strip was still nowhere to be seen; apparently he'd been and gone. The dark red Stunticon regarded the abstract, baroquely flowing metalworks with interest and increasing puzzlement. What was the artist trying to say?

"If you look for meaning in Spinshaper's work, you will be looking for a long time," said an elegantly-shaped white mech. He carried no faction markings that Dead End could see. "It is sculpted babbling."

"Ah, that would explain my puzzlement. It is difficult to find meaning where there is none," replied Dead End in his low, aristocratic voice.

"Spinshaper would tell you that you are simply interrogating his work from the wrong perspective, and are too stupid to comprehend True Art," the other mech said contemptuously, ice blue optics glimmering. "In truth, he is a talentless hack who covers up his lack of talent with incomprehensibility."

"Can I quote you on that?" Dead End asked.

Deadly blue optics brightened. "Quote me? You are a critic?" There was no missing the contempt in the other mech's voice.

"Dead End, art reviewer for _Battlefleet Noctis_. You are?" Dead End replied mildly.

"Armature." The white mech smiled coldly. "Yes, you may quote me." He regarded the blocky Stunticon intently. "Art reviewer. Yet you do not know who I am..." His tone questioned Dead End's basic intelligence.

"New sideline. In the unlikely event I survive this war, it might be useful to have some non-combat skill to fall back on," Dead End said, mildly amused. "Since I can form opinions, compose coherent paragraphs and arrange them in a meaningful fashion to express said opinions..." Dead End shrugged, the conclusion obvious.

"But what do you know of art?" Armature's tone was sharp, sneering.

"Art is communication by other means," Dead End replied. "The indirect message embedded in form and style. Thus," he nodded at one of Spinshaper's abstracts, "my... puzzlement at this work. It seems to me that art that does not communicate _something_ fails at its task--or rather, the artist has failed at _his_ task."

Armature nodded grudgingly. "At least you have _some_ notion of what art is. Tell me, what do you think of this piece?" Armature pointed to a different sculpture, very different from Spinshaper's pieces.

Dead End peered at the piece, a twisting brown wire adorned with delicate clusters of violet bell-shapes--then something clicked in his mind, and he realized he was looking at the metal sculpture of a plant--an _Earth_ flower. His gaze flicked to the tidy small label: _"Wisteria" by Armature. _

"Interesting," he murmured. "Why Earth flora?"

The shiny white mech looked startled. "You recognize it."

"I have seen them in the wild," Dead End said, looking back at Armature. "They are beautiful flowers that grow in great writhing vines that crawl over everything that doesn't chop them back. They're almost as bad as kudzu."

"Kud-zu," Armature rolled the alien word around, as if savoring the sound and flavor of it. "What is... _kudzu_?"

"An aggressive vine--hideously green, grows several feet per day, and covers everything. I've never seen it eat a mobile creature, but I'm sure it could if you were too weak to run."

Armature's optics were very bright. "Interesting..." he said, no longer paying attention to Dead End, the expression on his face curiously reminiscent of Megatron's when he plotted something. Dead End quietly took his leave, examining the rest of the pieces in the small gallery. They were all Armature's.

* * *

_Title: Mirror Psyche Inverted_

_Artist: Spinshaper_

_Media: Metal forging_

_This is typical of Spinshaper's work--a random blob of metal with more random bits of metal stuck to it, topped off with a grandiose title. I've picked blobs of mud out of my wheel wells that had more going for them than this. Like most abstracts, meaning is in the eye of the beholder; the meaning I get is "Yay! I can throw random slugs of molten metal at a wall and call it Art!" -- D.S._

* * *

_"Wisteria", by Armature. This colored wire and metalwork sculpture depicts the mating display of one of Earth's fragile, transient organic flora. Armature has taken the weak, perishable alien and made it into familiar, sturdy metalwork and wire, yet preserved its uncanny form. There is a disturbing blend of exotic, alien aesthetics with familiar texture and materials--the alien not quite assimilated, the Other not made harmonious with the familiar, the stranger tolerated but not befriended. The Art reflects the Artist. -- D.E._

* * *

_"Art and Intellect Reflecting Absence", by Spinshaper. The title of this flowing metal abstract seems all too self-descriptive. Like most of Spinshaper's art, it despairs of meaning, becoming as pointless and boring as life in general. In the words of a another, talented artist, it is "sculpted babbling", pretending to rarefied heights of intellectual abstraction in order to conceal its utter lack of merit. Again, the Art reflects the Artist. -- D.E._

* * *

Beyond this gallery was a small theater dedicated to audio performances. A small crowd had gathered, listening to a dark and light green Decepticon Seeker speak. Right down in front Dead End spotted a familiar green and purple mech--Scavenger. The Constructicon seemed engrossed in the performance; Dead End could see his shovel twitching. Curious, Dead End stepped inside the sound field. 

The Seeker's voice was deep and mellifluous, ringing out to declaim nobly, or sinking to a low, intimate rumble as his recital demanded--for recital it was. As Dead End listened, he realized he was hearing a story told in rhyme and rhythm. He turned to a blue and gray mech with a wedge-shaped crown and torso and whispered, "If you don't mind, who and what are we listening to?"

The mech turned his head and looked at Dead End, violet optics like his own gazing back. "That's Cadence, the poet. He's reciting one of his own works--_The Fall of Iacon_. He's quite good; I should be able to get a fair price for recordings of this recital."

"Indeed? I have heard the name, though I've not been fortunate enough to hear him before," Dead End murmured.

"He's different--there are mechs who can compose poetry, and there are mechs who can recite, but very few who can do both well." The blue and gray mech sighed. "Unfortunately, Cadence has a passion for epic war poetry, and that subject matter simply does not appeal to me. His voice, however, is a treasure to listen to, and he knows how to use it well. I could just stand here and listen to him read duty rosters all day."

"_Beep! Dead End, are you receiving? This is Counterpunch."_

Ah, excuse me, I have a call. Thank you for the commentary," Dead End nodded and stepped back out of the sound field.

"_Dead End here. I'm still at the Shadowlight gala. Is there a problem?"_

_"There's a problem at this end you can help me with. I had to drop an article unexpectedly, so upload me whatever you've got and I'll run it as live commentary in tonight's issue. I've already got some pieces from your buddy Drag Strip, so if you've got something readable, we'll be good to go."_

_"Give me a few minutes to arrange my preliminary reviews into something grammatical and I'll have something for you, indeed."_

_"Great! Upload it ASAP. Counterpunch out."_

Dead End wandered down the hallway to the next gallery, only half his mind on his surroundings, the other half on putting his review notes into some semblance of order.

"You got out of Slog's exhibit before he turned up and mistook you for one of his pieces, I see," said Drag Strip loudly right in Dead End's right audial.

"Yes, and I even composed some reviews for our friend Counterpunch," answered Dead End, not missing a step. "He mentioned that you did the same."

"Ehh, so you got Counterpunch's call." The bright canary yellow Stunticon sounded slightly disappointed. "Wonder what this bunch of fruit baskets is going to think of our little commentaries? They'll be going live shortly, while these guys are still posturing at each other." Drag Strip laughed rudely.

_"Beep Counterpunch here. I just got your upload, Dead End, and I've just finished reading Drag Strip's reviews. Damn, but he had me laughing myself sick! If yours are even half as good as his, you'll be online tonight, Dead End. Consider yourself a published journalist!"_

"_A _paid_, published journalist?"_

_"Of course! Payment on acceptance, and based on this first one I'm reading now, they're accepted. I'm authorizing the credits to your account even as we speak. Congratulations, Stunticons! Must be something in the air on Earth--you two are the first decent new writers I've seen in a long time."_

_"Oh, dear. You have no idea how disturbing that is to hear," _replied Dead End over his comm.

"_Oh? Why?" _Counterpunch sounded genuinely puzzled.

"_Because we work for the mighty leader who has to read all those after-action reports from the Decepticon forces..."_

There was a long silence. "_And I thought the slush pile was bad..."_

# # #

Within an hour, someone noticed the first set of reviews in _Battlefleet Noctis_, and word circulated slightly faster than lightspeed. In a semi-private lounge reserved for exhibitors, angry words were exchanged.

"How _dare_ he! That plebian little ground-slug _critic_! That ignorant buffoon! He knows _nothing_ about Art, nothing about Creation, nothing about History, yet he _dares_ to publish his crude japes as _reviews_? This is intolerable!"

"He has no respect for his betters, nor for Art, nor for the language. He has been allowed to make a mockery of us--a situation that will be rectified. However, they both pegged your art quite accurately, Spinshaper," replied a distinctive green and purple mech--Scrapper, the Constructicon.

"Must I be insulted by my fellows as well as those ignorant fools? You are simply interrogating it from the wrong perspective! If you had the intellect to truly appreciate my art, you would--"

"Still find nothing worth appreciating," commented the third artist, Armature.

A plasma rifle slid from its holster, only to be dropped as its owner's hand was very nearly crushed in an olive-drab grip.

"That will be enough of that," said Onslaught coldly. "No violence indoors, in case you _gentlemechs_ have forgotten the Rules of Engagement."

"And what of the violence done to Art by these plebian ground-crawlers? Shall we stand aside and let the common herd disrespect our culture, our--"

"Yes," said Onslaught, his voice even more icy than when he'd talked to Drag Strip. "One more loose weapon incident, Spinshaper, and I'll have Hammerbolt and Red Axle _publicly_ evict you. Go find a dark alley to work out your grievances in." Onslaught stalked out.

"Oh, we will," the purple and cyan-winged Seeker hissed at his back. "Are we agreed that this insult cannot be permitted? Shall an example be made of these... _reviewers_?"

"In principle, I approve, but I cannot know details--I work with their superior. Be careful how you handle this," Scrapper warned as he, too, left the lounge.

"Oh, I will." Spinshaper looked haughtily at his cronies and hangers-on. "Find out when they leave, and which route they take," he snarled at them, and stomped out. His cronies drifted out after him, leaving only Armature, Slog, and another small brown mech with wheels.

"Spinshaper, truth likes not."

"He never did. Interesting review Dead End did of my piece." Armature looked very thoughtful.

"Perceptive, he is--yet by prejudices, blinded. Other, my art _understood_. Blunt-spoken, he, but sees clearly."

The small brown wheeled mech spoke for the first time. "It is not blind to find a different, yet valid, meaning than the one you intended. Perhaps he is _more_ perceptive than you about your subjects."

Armature looked down at the other mech. "Are you suggesting that a bystander could know better than the artist what his art means?" His tone was sarcastic, suggesting that the other artist was short a few neural processors.

"Do you truly know _everything_ you've put into your own art?" asked the wheeled mech, whose name was Arbiter.

Armature only looked at him thoughtfully in response.

# # #

"Did you find Esoterica's exhibit?" Dead End asked Drag Strip some hours later, when they crossed paths again.

There was little mistaking the hostile glances they were both getting from certain individuals, particularly those in the company of the purple-winged Spinshaper. Spinshaper himself gave Drag Strip a nasty smirk from time to time, promising trouble to come. Somewhat more puzzling were the amused smirks and the occasional, surreptitious "thumbs-up" signs Drag Strip got from other individuals, such as the green-winged Cadence.

"_Esoterica?_ The confectioner? But--" Drag Strip looked at Dead End like he'd misplaced his processor.

"Food as Art. It's a delightful display. I think Scavenger has moved in there permanently; he seems enchanted with it."

"I saw Scavenger watching that green jet guy who does poetry. I swear, his shovel was wagging the whole recital," commented Drag Strip.

"Cadence? Did you listen to him? He has quite the voice."

"Eh, audio performances don't do it for me. Food on the other hand--" Drag Strip rushed off, looking for Esoterica's exhibit.

As Dead End pondered wearily just what to do next--he'd covered nearly every inch of the gala and had taken in about all the art he could stand, Onslaught strolled by.

"Still here?" the Combaticon leader said, sounding mildly surprised.

Dead End knew quite well that Onslaught knew exactly who had entered and exited the premises, so...

"Not for much longer," Dead End said. "I have recharge and much collation and consolidation to do." He pondered, tapping his battle mask with one finger. "I have only been able to properly complete and upload a few reviews--the easiest ones, the pieces that were either very good or quite bad. It's the in-between pieces that are hardest to evaluate."

"Yes... the reviews you and Drag Strip _did_ publish have had an interesting reception. Do consider that when you plan your route back." Onslaught stalked off.

Dead End made a few comm transmissions as he drifted toward the entrance--one on the private command channel to Motormaster, and another to Drag Strip. "_Drag Strip! Are you about finished? Or shall I die of energon exhaustion right in the middle of the gallery? Perhaps I should volunteer myself to Slog as a new sculpture, or see what happens if I take samples from the Esoterica exhibit--it would be less tedious."_

_"Cripes, hold your horses, will you? I'm coming!"_

_"You do know they mean to kill us? As soon as we're far enough from Shadowlight not to annoy the owners, they'll ambush us. If we're lucky, it will all be over quickly, and they won't keep us alive for artistic purposes."_

_"Thank you for that advisory, Dead End. I _had _figured that out. Look, we just leave quickly when they're busy with one of their endless stupid arguments and take a different route. Transform and roll once we hit the street, they'll never catch us!"_

They did exactly that--in his enthusiasm, Drag Strip forgot one thing. Seekers are jets, and they can fly. The ambush didn't come in the narrow underground tunnels--jets hate fighting in close quarters.

The attack came when the two Stunticons broke out onto the surface, and sped down the street-canyons of the Polyhex cityscape toward their barracks. A barrage of laserfire and cluster bombs was Dead End's first warning of the ambush. His forcefield shrugged off the initial strike, and Dead End opened his throttle wide.

"Crap! We're in the open--there's an alley!" Drag Strip yelled, cornering on two wheels. Dead End skidded into a bootlegger reverse and roared into the alley after Drag Strip--

WHOOOM!

The alley exploded in a ball of fire--

The two Stunticons zoomed out of the alley enshrouded in flame that quickly burned itself out.

"SLAGGIT! That was fuel-air explosive! Someone really wants us dead!" Drag Strip screamed shrilly.

A plasma bolt snarled out of the sky and struck Drag Strip square on the hood--and splashed. There was another, louder snarl of angry turbines just above them.

"You aren't dead?" Spinshaper yelled as he hovered above them in jet form. More slender, graceful forms zipped by above him. "Why aren't you dead yet?"

Another barrage of cluster bombs followed, cratering the road and sending Dead End into a spin that terminated in the adjacent building. Drag Strip, hurtling down the road too fast for the suddenly worsened conditions, caught his wheel in one of the new holes and flipped, rolling several times before slamming into a building on the other side of the road.

Spinshaper changed to robot mode and dropped to the ground, along with several other friends. He smirked evilly. "Get 'em alive, if you can," he told his cronies. "I think I'll try my hand at slogism."

"This is pointless," Dead End said, shifting to robot mode and getting to his feet. "Nothing will change what is already written." A pistol appeared almost magically in his hand.

Ahead of him, beyond Spinshaper, Drag Strip also shifted and stood up, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Slagging losers! Can't handle a little criticism, can you?" he jeered. His gravito-gun snapped twice and two jets found themselves flying through the air unexpectedly--and then slammed to the ground.

Spinshaper lost his smirk--the two critics weren't cowering and pleading for their lives like they were supposed to!--and tried to bring his arm cannon to bear--

Something slammed across his arm like a piledriver and his right cannon was torn away, along with several feet of metal skin. Dead End sighted along his hyper-compressed air pistol for a second shot--

Spinshaper leaped into the air and launched a pair of cluster bombs in Dead End's direction. The street exploded into battle as Spinshaper's cronies opened fire on the two art reviewers--

"SLAG YOU, DRAG STRIP! I TOLD YOU NOT TO START THE FIGHT UNTIL I GOT HERE!" A voice like dark thunder roared over the screams of battle and the howl of turbines and the jagged, gut-twisting, rivet-popping, gear-grinding roar of three more engines.

Motormaster, Wildrider and Breakdown had arrived.

# # #

The next day, five very nervous Stunticons lined up at attention in front of Megatron.

"Motormaster," Megatron said with deceptive softness, "why am I receiving complaints from Shockwave about troop casualties? Casualties caused, not by Autobots, but by _Stunticons_?" The last word came out as a snarl.

"A... friendly fire accident, sir," Motormaster answered, not meeting Megatron's optics.

"'Friendly fire'? Please, do explain," said Megatron, sitting on his throne, his fusion cannon casually pointed at Motormaster's chest. "I want to hear this."

Motormaster's engine rumbled. "I received a call--two of my boys were pinned down by attacking jets. Rallied the rest and went out there to relieve them. It was dark, didn't get a good look at colors, just a bunch of jets flashing around, shooting and bombing--figured it had to be those lousy Aerialbots again. Who else would attack _us_?" Motormaster shrugged. "So we waded into the bastards; figured it was about time we evened up the score. Didn't realize it was a bunch of Shockwave's Seekers until we had 'em down for the count." Motormaster shrugged again. "What the slag were a bunch of Seekers doing attacking _us_, anyway?"

"Bad IFF, eh? You're sure that's it?" Megatron leaned forward, ruby optics glowing.

"That's the way it happened, sir," Motormaster said.

"I see." Megatron leaned back again. "I will be inquiring of Shockwave just why his Seekers were attacking one of my units--no doubt it was another case of _mistaken_ identity. Make sure it doesn't happen again!"

"It won't, sir." Motormaster's optics flared brightly as he glanced at the rest of his unit, his expression promising dire and woeful futures to all of them.

"Just to make sure it doesn't, Soundwave will schedule you all for remedial enemy and friendly force identification training--during your off-duty hours. Dismissed!"

As they filed out, the Stunticons' private channel erupted with chatter.

"_You idiots just cost us all our free time for a month! Drag Strip, Dead End, you are freaking dead!"_

_"I know. So the inevitable end draws a bit nearer. Does it really matter?"_

_"Why were those guys attacking you anyway?"_

_"Dead End, just shut it or your 'inevitable end' is going to be right fragging now in the middle of the fragging hall!" _Motormaster's arm swept out and slammed Dead End in the side of the head, flinging him hard against the wall.

"_Nice call with the 'friendly fire' bit, boss."_

_"Heheheh." _Even over the radio, Motormaster's laugh was anything but warm and friendly--hot and sadistic, perhaps. "_As you wrote it, punk."_

_"Wrote it? Wrote what?"_

_"Friendly fire--isn't."_

_-- FIN --_

* * *

_This story takes place somewhat before "Dead and Drunk" (Drinking Energon Dead End). Arbiter and Esoterica belong to Rebecca Hb. Armature, Spinshaper and the blue and gray audiophile (Euphony) belong to Wayward. Slog is canonical, if obscure. Cadence, Hammerbolt, and Red Axle are original to me._


	19. Bookreading

**Book-reading Dead End  
**

Dead End came out of stasis lock in the Constructicons' lab after his losing battle with Sunstreaker, which quite pleasantly surprised him. Evidently, the yellow Lamborghini Autobot had _not_ had the chance to put a photon beam through Dead End's main cognitive processor.

_Note for future reference: Sunstreaker prefers to hit the cognitive processor first, laser core second for his coup de grace._

He felt no pain--possibly because Hook had him laid open to his core and cog and had disconnected all the pain sensors.

"You are online," Hook said in a vaguely disapproving tone, "because I need your feedback on kinesthesia. Your gyros are repaired and you need to calibrate them. Once that is done, you may remain online if there are no complications." _As long as you don't kick up a fuss and make my job harder,_ was what Hook really meant.

"Acknowledged," said Dead End, only half his attention on Hook as he ferreted through his data stores for something he hadn't read lately. Not Smith--he wasn't in the mood for dark fantasy lately... Not Shelley, the protagonist was far too whiny and idiotic... Stoker dragged too much... Austen? How had _that_ gotten in his memory banks? Romances simply confused him, particularly Victorian ones. They hinged far too much on obscure points of human custom. Edgar Burroughs's romances were about the only ones he could follow easily, and they happily included a fair amount of mayhem, weird geography, and even weirder zoology. Even if the male partner always seemed terribly careless about misplacing his female partner.

There had to be _something_ worth reading in the download he'd taken from that Project Gutenberg site. Right now wasn't a good time to bug Hook about Internet access...

The half of his attention that was on Hook dutifully answered the Constructicon's test questions about sensation, balance and position as Dead End continued poking through his data stores. Ah! Robert Louis Stevenson looked promising, and he had several books...

"LET GO OF ME, YOU SLAGGING LIMEYS!" Motormaster's shout of rage distracted Dead End about a third of the way through _Treasure Island_.

The remaining Constructicons had brought the Stunticon leader back online--Scrapper handling the actual repairs, Scavenger assisting, Bonecrusher immoblizing Motormaster, and Mixmaster regulating whatever concoction he was pumping into Motormaster's fuel lines to keep the Stunticon semi from berserking. The usual. The Constructicons hated working on Motormaster--he was a lousy subject.

"Hurry it up," Bonecrusher snarled at Mixmaster. "He's even harder to hold down than Brawl!"

"J-just a moment longer..." Mixmaster replied as Motormaster thrashed in Bonecrusher and Scrapper's grip. Motormaster opened his mouth to snarl some obscenity at the bulldozer-mech--

Mixmaster jammed what Scrapper called a 'Stunticon lolli' between Motormaster's jaws. It was more like a short spear with an electro-chemical warhead. Motormaster's head and body went suddenly rigid as the initial charge briefly paralyzed his vocalizer and all his motor circuits--just long enough for the second and third parts of the payload to take effect. Part two inhibited the Stunticon's emotional network, rendering him calm, neither angry nor happy--but not particularly cooperative, either. Motormaster's innate contrariness manifested as a stubborn apathy when his rage was suppressed. (Curiously like Dead End's, which occasioned much private speculation among the Constructicons) The third part of the payload dealt with that, lowering his suggestibility threshold and making him more likely to follow simple, non-threatening orders.

Now they could do their job, and repair Motormaster. The Constructicons did not talk about Mixmaster's 'special medications' to outsiders, not even to Megatron. Especially not to Megatron. Megatron might not _understand_ just why they'd developed a weapon that, coincidentally, would work very well on _him._

It amused Dead End to let the eminently capable, brilliant engineers think that the gloomy Stunticon who never needed tranqing was as apathetic and oblivious as he looked. Hook, at least, should have known better--but then, Dead End avoided playing chess with Hook for a reason. He preferred to be underestimated.

It took only a small fraction of Dead End's processing capacity to read his e-book; the rest of it kept track of everything that went on around him. Even if Long John Silver was disturbingly reminiscent of Starscream...


	20. Naughty

**Naughty Dead End**

_**Warning: smut/slash. **__This story is set in the DeadZone continuity: a random assortment of Transformers have been stranded on an abandoned planet. Notably, the rest of the Stunticons were **not** stranded there with Dead End. _

* * *

Starfighter's jerking, barely-in-control flight caught Dead End's notice as he rolled in from his latest round of exploration. Seekers like Starfighter might fly further and faster, covering more ground, but there was something to be said for having optics at ground level to investigate things in detail. 

The blue pyramid jet transformed and stumbled to a landing; Dead End backed off on the gas pedal and rolled quietly toward him as Starfighter shuddered violently. Dead End could hear the ugly hacking noise his backfiring air intakes made from hundreds of yards away.

Starfighter was having one of his attacks, the attacks he denied and tried to hide from the others. If Dead End had not seen such seizures twice before, he might have believed the denials and excuses. Something was wrong with Starfighter, something he didn't want anyone to know about.Decepticons couldn't afford to show weakness. In their "survival of the fittest" world, the weak were expendable--spare parts for the strong. No one wants to be spare parts; Starfighter hid his disability as best he could.

His best wasn't good enough; Dead End knew, and Dead End watched. The moody Stunticon disliked most Seekers; they were a vain, arrogant lot, though the ones he'd been stuck with lately hadn't been so bad. Starfighter, though, was too weak to be arrogant, too timid and self-effacing to be obnoxiously vain, though he had a Seeker's handsome face. In fact, thought Dead End, he could use a hand getting polished up. His engine missed on two cylinders as he thought of rubbing Starfighter all over, first light touches to apply polish, then slow and hard to buff it in.

Dead End transformed silently and stalked Starfighter; the Seeker was shaking violently and clutching at his cockpit. The delectable blue Seeker was almost helpless, completely unaware of his surroundings. Anyone could just walk up and take advantage of him. The dark red Stunticon seized him around the waist just as Starfighter collapsed to his knees--or would have.

"N-No! Let go of me, I'm fine!" Starfighter thrashed weakly, optics widening in fear--then stopped as he shuddered, his intakes violently backing air. He spasmed helplessly as Dead End pulled him off the street into one of the many abandoned buildings in the mining town-turned-base.

"Shhh!" said Dead End softly. "You're only making it worse, frail little Seeker. Don't try to deny your weakness; I've seen you before. You try so hard to hide it, hoping against hope that no one has seen, no one has reported. Futility; there is no hope of that. _I_ have seen."

He held the Seeker against his body, letting his engines purr through the other as he felt the seizure shake Starfighter, overwhelming the little fluttery trembles of fear. "You are so much like my brother Breakdown, you know. He couldn't stand to have strangers watching him--it would get to him, the optics and cameras looking, always looking for him, until he snapped."

Dead End gently stroked one of the Seeker's wings, tracing the trailing edge. He held back, only touching the alevons, gently flexing their joints, instead of throwing the weakened Seeker to the ground and using him like he craved. Starfighter was so frighteningly like his brother at times, and the loneliness and desire was just too much.

"I'd hold him, and pet him until the shakes went away, and the cameras stopped looking into his mind." Starfighter's own shakes seemed to be diminishing. He whimpered softly as Dead End's fingers stroked to the root of his wings and caressed the joints. "N-No, please, you've got it all wrong," he said fearfully, his wings trembling deliciously.

"He had a handsome face like yours, too," Dead End whispered into Starfighter's audials. He relaxed his grip, releasing Starfighter to slide to the ground, still weak from the lasercore flare.

"It was just a momentary glitch, just--" Starfighter babbled--until Dead End slipped around in front of the sitting Seeker and pressed one finger against his lips.

"I told you, I've seen you before." He slid off his visor, revealing curious violet optics; a touch at the corners of his battle mask unlatched it, revealing a dour, yet handsome face beneath. "The first time, in the ditch with the alien tank, you almost fooled me with your denials--but it happened again, and again."

He caressed the side of Starfighter's face with one hand; the other came to rest on an intake. "Don't be afraid. I have no interest in seeing someone so like my brother broken up for spare parts--and you have a keen mind like him, too. I'm only a ground-crawling car, after all, least powerful of the Stunticons..." Dead End brought his face close to Starfighter's, lowering his voice to a whisper as he caressed the Seeker's helm and face.

Something that was not quite desperation lit up Starfighter's optics, and he grabbed at the Stunticon. Perhaps Starfighter meant to push Dead End away, but he ended up pulling Dead End down on top of him. "T-that's right, you're just a car," he said, as if reassuring himself. A look of resignation crossed his face; he could guess what the Stunticon wanted as the price of his silence.

Dead End nuzzled the Seeker's face even as his hands roamed over the jet's cockpit. "Just a car," he agreed. "You're so much bigger and better armed than I am," he said, his voice a deep, sultry purr. "If you pointed your guns at me, I'd have to do _whatever_ you wanted."

"W-Whatever _I _wanted?" Starfighter trembled again, but it wasn't from the design defect that plagued him. Nor was it fear that forced a squeak from him as Dead End stroked the seams of his cockpit, wriggling his fingers under the edge. This wasn't going quite as he expected!

"_Whatever_ you want," Dead End said, closing Starfighter's mouth with a kiss. Dark hands lifted and wrapped around Starfighter's arm guns, pumping up and down the length of them, pulling them down and inward to point at Dead End's chest.

"See? One click of a relay," Dead End said in that same dark sultry voice, "and oblivion. I am at your mercy--and you are a Decepticon, ruthless and without mercy. I had best... satisfy you. On the other hand... will sensory overload prove too much for your weakness? Does oblivion wait on the other side of pleasure?" Dead End's violet optics burned feverishly bright as he caressed the Seeker's deadly guns; shivers of anticipation sparked through his circuits.

"No!" Starfighter exclaimed, stiffening and trying for a brief moment to yank his guns out of Dead End's grasp... But he liked Dead End's hands there, yes he did, that felt good... "It won't hurt me," he said weakly, his arms trembling again.

"You're the mech with the guns aimed at my lasercore," Dead End said, another shiver of anticipation running through him. "I have to do what you say, now."

Starfighter blinked, optics flickering dimly and back to normal again. This definitely wasn't what he'd expected! Dead End wanted to... submit to him? To _Starfighter_? "Er, do what you were doing?"

That didn't sound very confident, did it? The intense violent burn of Dead End's optics whenever he forced Starfighter's guns to point at something vital was downright disturbing, too. Starfighter didn't want to think about what it might mean, and--

Those hands continued to ride up his guns as Dead End straddled his nosecone and pressed against Starfighter's cockpit. Then his fingers roamed off the ends of his guns to his shoulders--not an area Starfighter thought of as sensitive--

Until Dead End started forcing his fingers into the underside, where the rotator was. Pressing at the seam that protected the joint in this mode, the seam that had to open up and fold back when Starfighter transformed.

"Ah! Concentrate there!" Starfighter suddenly found an order to give.

Dead End smiled ever so slightly and complied, shifting both hands to Starfighter's left shoulder. He gently parted the under-shoulder seam, opening and spreading it wide enough for his fingers to work into the joint. He stroked the complex mechanism, working his fingers in, bumping and jolting the kinesthetic sensors there.

Starfighter shuddered, intakes violently sucking air as sensations sparked through his circuits. Dead End lowered his face to the top of Starfighter's cockpit, hiding a smirk as he nuzzled the folded nose section.

"Do you suppose your cockpit sections are similarly... responsive?" Dead End asked. His engine purred, a deep thrumming that resonated through Starfighter's entire upper body.

Starfighter whimpered. Wait, he was the one in charge, wasn't he? "I-I don't know. I order you to find out!"

"At once, sir!" Eager fingers teased at Starfighter's cockpit latch. "And once we find out, would you allow me to give you a good polish?"

"Polish?" Starfighter had trouble concentrating on Dead End's words; the Stunticon had found the latch, and the seams, and...

"Polish. It's how we Stunticons always go into battle shining and beautiful. We take care of each other. Breakdown was especially good at it," said Dead End in that sultry voice, lowering it almost to a whisper in Starfighter's audials.

"First he'd apply polish all over every inch of exposed metal, with a very... light touch. Then, he'd have to wait a few minutes for it to dry. No touching," Dead End said softly as he reached into the circuitry underneath Starfighter's open cockpit.

"No touching at--ahhh,' Starfighter _writhed_, his wings fluttering against the wall. His turbines whined erratically, the note rising and falling with his own thrashing. Oh Primus he was going to _die_ of this! "At all?"

"Not at all. I'd just have to... anticipate." Dead End suddenly froze, hands motionless.

Starfighter whimpered. "Don't stop! I order you to continue!"

"I feared it might be too much, too soon. Your glitch seems to happen whenever things get interesting," Dead End explain. A simple, logical explanation--so why was he smirking?

He resumed stroking deep inside Starfighter's cockpit, caressing sensitive, life-maintaining circuitry. "Then, when it was dry, he would take a soft pad and rub me hard, with slow, circular motions. He'd buff every... square... inch of metal on me."

Dead End lowered his voice as Starfighter arched and cried out, voice an incoherent shriek of ecstasy. "Then he'd do it all over again three more times."

-- FIN --

* * *

_Starfighter is the adopted character of Seiberwing and used with her permission--his original creator stuffed him in a badfic, from which he was rescued, renamed, and given a background that made sense. This version of Dead End is the one played in the Transformers:Deadzone RPG._


	21. Obedient

**Why We Don't Let Dead End Give Combat Briefings,**

**aka Obedient Dead End**

"No sir, we don't let Dead End give the briefings. Megatron himself gave _that_ order," Wildrider told Cyclonus.

The new Decepticon Air Commander and Second-in-Command gave the Stunticon a skeptical look. Skepticism on the face of Cyclonus combined the hauteur of ancient nobility with the subtle threat of an immensely powerful, serenely confident leader who requires his underling to stop babbling nonsense and explain himself right now.

"Why" asked the tall, purple Decepticon starfighter, "did Megatron give such an order? Dead End is the most intelligent and coherent of you Stunticons; he is the logical choice for briefing others on the Stunticon's part in the operation."

"Well, see, that's what Starscream said, back in 1987 that time..." Wildrider says, and launches into his tale.

---

Motormaster waited patiently for Megatron; as soon as the Decepticon leader arrived, Soundwave would start the combat briefing. Gathered in the briefing room along with the Stunticons were Soundwave, Blitzwing, Dirge, Thrust and Ramjet.

Instead, Starscream arrived. "Megatron is busy; as second-in-command, I will fill in for him--just like I would if he were to become incapacitated or otherwise unfit to lead! Soundwave, get on with it!"

Soundwave gave Starscream a long look. "Affirmative. Motormaster: Explain Stunticon operations."

Motormaster turned lazily to look at Starscream and smirked contemptuously. "Yeah. Me and the boys--"

"Stop!" Starscream snapped harshly. "I want a briefing from someone who can speak the language like he actually knew what the words meant! Have Dead End give the briefing; he actually has a functioning neural processor and won't get a nervous _breakdown_ from being looked at!"

Motormaster scowled. "I lead the Stunticons, I give the briefings."

"Are you disobeying a direct _order_, Motormaster?" Starscream snarled and his arm guns whined as they charged up. "I am second-in-command of ALL Decepticons, including YOU!"

Drag Strip piped up with "Yeah, Motormaster always does the talking so we don't have to! Besides, the Deadster really ain't the guy you want giving this briefing. He wouldn't like it, either."

A smirk of cruel amusement spread over Motormaster's face. "Too bad we're fighting a war, and you gotta do something you don't like. Orders is orders. Dead End, brief them." Motormaster sat down, still smirking.

"Yes, sir," Dead End replied in a sullen, morose tone. He rose to his feet, expressionless behind his mask and visor.

"We Stunticons are scheduled to assault random targets here, here and there," Dead End indicated selected highway interchanges on the map, "disrupting traffic and drawing off emergency and military responders. Given the Autobot concern for human life, they should respond first to our attack, allowing Starscream's air unit to breach the defenses at the facility here unopposed and to insert Soundwave and his cassettes into the control room."

Motormaster looked bored; Starscream looked pleased with the clarity and conciseness of Dead End's briefing... then Dead End started adding his own analysis.

"However, given that the likely Autobot response to a Stunticon attack is to send Aerialbots, and to humans in danger would be to send the Protectobots, we will certainly have to form Menasor--if none of us are casualties of Aerialbot weapons by that point," Dead End's tone of voice suggested that is highly unlikely. Motormaster began to smirk again.

"Based on previous experience, Menasor will induce the formation of Superion and Defensor. I estimate that Menasor will be dismembered with total casualty within 5000 astroseconds. Without Menasor to engage them, Superion will engage the air unit and destroy them, either as a gestalt, or will separate to pursue and destroy them. Defensor will then terminate Soundwave, and the cassettes will be hunted down and destroyed individually." Dead End's tone suggested that this is all very lamentable, and why didn't we just not bother? He began to explain just _how_ each and every one of them could be taken out by which Autobot weapons--

"DEAD END! I did NOT ask for your analysis!" Starscream snapped, with perhaps the tiniest edge of hysteria in his tone.

Starscream glared at Motormaster; the hulking truck-former _still _smirked inexplicably; he was all but grinning! The rest of the Stunticons didn't look particularly phased. The same could not be said of the Coneheads. Dirge looked at the battle map like it was an order for his execution; Thrust and Ramjet looked distinctly unhappy. Blitzwing scowled, but that was normal for him. Soundwave's expression was as unreadable as Dead End's, though his hand had risen to rest gently against his cassette chamber when Dead End had analyzed the cassetticons likely fate; he was not as unworried as he looked.

Starscream stared at the battle map himself; damn Dead End! Why hadn't he seen this possibility himself? Megatron's plan was going to get them all killed; once again, their mighty leader had proved himself unfit to lead. How could he get out of this?

"Starscream, did you finish the briefing yet?" Megatron's familiar, gravelly voice startled Starscream out of his tangled thoughts. The Decepticon Leader strode in the door and looked at his officers. Motormaster smiled and gave Megatron a respectful nod; Dirge still stared fearfully at the battle map while Thrust and Ramjet looked uneasily at Megatron, half-afraid to meet his gaze. Blitzwing glared back defiantly, and Soundwave was Soundwave, as usual.

"I sense a disappointing lack of enthusiasm for _my_ plan, Starscream. What did you tell them?" Megatron growled.

"I-I didn't tell them anything! I had Soundwave and Dead End give the briefing!" Starscream all but yelped.

"You had _Dead End_ give the Stunticon briefing?" Megatron asked incredulously. "Dead End! Repeat what you told Starscream!"

Dead End flinched at Megatron's tone. "Sir? I--yes, sir." How had he offended Megatron? He repeated his initial briefing, and started into the analysis again. As he spoke, the other Decepticons around the room seemed to sink in on themselves.

"STOP!" Megatron held up one hand. In the sudden silence, Motormaster's quiet snicker stood out like a giggle at a funeral.

Megatron clenched the hand into a fist and punched Motormaster in the side of the head, denting his massive cowl, then backhanded Starscream with the side of his cannon.

"Starscream, you dolt! The Protectobots are on _Cybertron_, and cannot possibly respond. As for you, Motormaster--Dead End is never to give briefings again! Do you understand me?" The threat in Megatron's voice was unmistakable.

"Yes, sir," replied Motormaster. "_Your_ orders _will_ be obeyed."

"Of course they will," Megatron said, calmer now. "As for you, Starscream--never attempt to micromanage the Stunticons again! Once again, you prove your incompetence at anything resembling leadership!"

Starscream glared furiously at Megatron but said nothing. He shot Motormaster a dirty look that promised, _Someday you'll pay for this!_

Motormaster gave the Air Commander a smug smile in return. _Yeah, you and what three armies?_

Dead End simply sighed; now both Starscream and Megatron probably wanted him dead. Friendly fire was such an _unfriendly_ way to go.

---

"...and that is why Dead End don't give no briefings outside the Stunticons!" Wildrider concluded. "Like Soundwave said back then, 'Dead End: deleterious to morale'".

Cyclonus nodded. "I see. A wise decision by Megatron. Motormaster allows Dead End to brief yourselves?"

"Eh, we're used to the Deadster and his screwy outlook. See, he's good at figuring all the ways a mission can go pear-shaped, so Big M just makes sure we got the possibilities covered. That, and we know it can't possibly get _worse_ than Dead End figures, so it's all upslope from there!"

-- FIN --


	22. Transforming

**Transforming Dead End**

_(This scene takes place during Scramble City )_

The Aerialbots began to merge again. Dead End, currently Menasor's arm, groaned inwardly at the pointlessness of it all. Menasor and Superion would spend the battle pounding on each other, and the net result would be that both groups might have well have stayed home, for all the effect they'd have.

Unless Superion were somehow disabled while Menasor was not... thought became idea became action. Dead End hurled himself away from Menasor (and away from Motormaster)--

--into the merger with Superion. One Aerialbot was a bit too slow off the mark--Fireflight, and his tardiness left an opening. Dead End transformed and slammed his Menasor connections into Superion's left leg socket.

Sparks flashed and circuits surged agonizingly, as connections that were never meant to be were forced into place. Superion screamed and thrashed in agony, the same agony that tore through every circuit in Dead End's body. It was killing him, he knew, but he expected that.

_Menasor can fight without an arm, but you can't stand without a leg._ Dead End felt Superion's mentality trying to shut down his independent consciousness, assimilate his combat instincts as it would Fireflight's...

Designed to work in unison with his gestalt-mates rather than being suppressed, habituated to perpetual rebellion against Motormaster, Dead End set his will and simply sank into pessimistic passivity, giving Superion nothing but his understanding of certain doom.

Menasor slammed his fist into the helpless Superion repeatedly; Dead End felt the pain of the blows dimly, through the rebellious connection. Whatever else was happening, he couldn't tell; pain was an electrical haze around him, and holding onto the jamming connection took everything he had.

SHRRRRACK!

A tremendous bolt of energy slammed into the connection point, tearing Dead End free of his death grip on Superion. Optimus Prime had shot him. He fell to the ground and transformed, as the pain of the unnatural connection faded from his body--then bounced back into position as Menasor's arm.

Just in time to get flattened by an enraged and fully-functional Superion. Oh well. Doomed as usual.

_GET WITH THE PROGRAM AND JUST FREAKING HIT HIM, WILL YA?_

Cursed to be with Motormaster as well. Doomed and cursed.

_Superion is looking at me!_

_YEEEEE-HAAAA!_

_Hey, you bruised my finish when you belted Superion in the face! _

_THEN BRACE SO I CAN HIT HIM--DRAG STRIP, QUIT WHINING ABOUT THE SCUFFS ON YOUR FINISH, OR SO HELP ME I'M GOING TO TEAR YOU OFF AND STUFF YOU SIDEWAYS UP SUPERION'S AFTERBURNERS!_

Even more doomed than that.


	23. Exhausted

**Exhausted Dead End**

**_Warning: slash,_**_ several implied pairings, plus suggestive smut. _

* * *

**  
**

"Where is the docking tower? They're watching us, I know they are, are they just going to let us fly around up here until we fall into the ocean?" Breakdown whined as he and Dead End returned to base.

They flew low over the waves, occasionally getting smacked by spray as energy flows and lifters wavered and started up again. Dead End would rather fly higher, but it was easier flying just above the waves--Thrust called it 'ground effect' once, which was a curious term for the ocean--and the two Stunticons were nearly out of energy. If they had to go much further, they'd be walking... on the ocean floor.

"As low on energy as we are," Dead End mused, "our navigation systems are no doubt glitching, and we're miles off course. We'll run out of energy very soon now, and sink into the ocean, never to be seen again."

Before Breakdown could reply to that, the ocean beneath them boiled as the docking tower rose from the sea. Salt water poured off the gleaming purple tower as it heaved up from below like the sail of some gigantic violet submarine. The jaws of the landing platform yawned open to receive the two Stunticons.

Dead End staggered as he landed, lifters failing as his energy levels dropped too low; Breakdown landed beside him.

"We're right on target. What a pleasant surprise!" Dead End said, sounding quite surprised indeed. Beside him, Breakdown simply sighed. The two of them stumbled into the elevator and rode it down to the control room.

Ramjet was on duty at the controls; he grinned at the two of them and waved at two full energon cubes sitting on the console. "Wondered when you two were going to show up! I almost drank your share waiting."

"The raid succeeded?" Breakdown said suspiciously. Whatever his suspicions, they didn't stop him from grabbing a cube and drinking greedily.

"Slag yes! Best haul in months, thanks to Blitzwing's feint at the refinery. Got all the Autobots sent to the wrong place. Megatron ordered everyone to have triple rations to celebrate, and there's some serious celebrating going on!" Ramjet's excessively loud and cheery tone suggested that being on duty had not interfered with a bit of celebration on the white jet's part.

"Alas, as the rear guard sent to make sure you got home with the goods, we were rather delayed," Dead End said, picking up the remaining cube. "I am simply amazed that we got back at all; as it is, we nearly fell into the ocean from lack of energy."

"You're always amazed to wake up from recharge, buddy!" Ramjet gave the gloomy Stunticon a friendly slap on the shoulder. "You can recharge now--see Motormaster about the rest of your share. Now that you're back, I can get seriously tanked!"

Dead End had enough energon in him that he felt like he could actually drive back to quarters, but he walked anyway. He wasn't in that much of a hurry to ask Motormaster for anything. Breakdown followed along in silence, giving Dead End long glances that the dark red Stunticon was oblivious to.

"Triple share..." Dead End mused as he cut through the 'C' deck lounge and stepped over a sprawled-out Rumble laying across Dirge's legs. Both were passed out cold, light blue on dark blue; empty energon cubes littered the room. Dead End idly speculated on the possibility that the energon was tainted and that everyone else in the base was dead or dying, with him and Breakdown soon to follow. However, the silly grin on Rumble's face seemed to belie that notion--unless it was a very pleasant death. The soft whir of Dirge's all-but-offline turbines more firmly belied Dead End's morbid speculations.

"Slag and dross," Breakdown grumbled. "We missed all the fun."

"So we'll find some fun of our own," Dead End said, turning away just in time to miss the hopeful look on Breakdown's face. "At least you don't have to worry about Soundwave's monitors; he's probably in an over-energized pile with the rest of the cassettes."

"Or he's gotten his entertainment from watching the rest of them get over-energized and uninhibited," Breakdown said, looking speculatively at the security camera in the corridor leading to the Stunticons' quarters.

"Took you slackers long enough!" called out an obviously inebriated Wildrider from down the hall. He leaned on an equally inebriated Brawl. "Big M's got your share in his cabin, dudes! Better hurry it up, Big O's getting lonely without you!"

Breakdown immediately began to sputter, his engine rumbling discordantly. "B-but I.. th-that's not--Aarggh!" Breakdown shoved Dead End aside, rushing the door to compartment C-134.

--And stopped abruptly at the sounds from within. The whine of jet turbines, the rumble of a diesel engine, soft whimpers of pleasure or perhaps pain, a deep, _satisfied_growl followed by a high shriek and a low, brutal chuckle...

Breakdown backed away until he bumped into Dead End. "One cube's enough for me right now," he muttered. "I'll get my share later. Go ahead, get yours."

Dead End turned his head slowly, looking at Breakdown. Breakdown's violet optics burned brilliantly in his red face as he stared at the door to C-134 in fascination. Dead End nodded in acknowledgment and rested his hand lightly on the door switch.

Surely Motormaster had it locked, and disturbing Motormaster now would be... unwise. An agonized shriek rang out, a shriek that screamed a name Dead End couldn't quite make out. A fatal curiosity possessed him; he tapped the door button.

The door slid open with a barely audible hiss. It didn't matter; those within heard nothing outside their own passion. Behind him, Dead End heard Breakdown's engines stutter and catch--

Gray arms pinned red and blue, massive dark thighs straddled red hips; dark gray face turned up, lips parted delicately in soft whimpers only to be silenced by a silver-gray mouth crushing them. One silver boot rubbed against a blocky gray foot; dark rumbles of pleasure surged through the baleful truck as he twisted one silver wing in his grip. The form underneath him arched, crying out a name as he writhed in Motormaster's grip, amber cockpit pressing against the dark bulk of the Stunticon leader...

Dead End stepped quickly back; letting the door slide shut. Behind him, Breakdown moaned; two arms slipped around Dead End's body from behind, pulling the dark red Stunticon close. Breakdown's mad vibrations coursed through Dead End's body, shivering in sync with the sharp cries and impassioned growls behind the door.

How over-energized do you have to be, Dead End wondered, to mistake Motormaster for Megatron?

As his own engine began to race in time with Breakdown's, Dead End decided that it really didn't matter...

-- FIN --


	24. Turned On

**Turned-On Dead End**

The thin blond man stepped outside the run-down stone building, looking warily up and down the street. All was quiet; there was only himself and the parked cars lining both sides of the street. He held a cigarette cupped in one hand and fumbled in his pants pocket for a lighter.

The man's eyes suddenly widened as his gaze fell on one of the cars parked at the curb. He stepped over and let his fingers run gently over the gleaming dark red metal, caressing the nearest fender and then moving his hands up to the door. Dark, nearly black glass concealed the interior, but he knew what it looked like.

"Well, well. What are _you_ doing here?" Spike asked. He stepped around the front of the car, smirking as he ran his hands lightly over the hood, his night-eyes marking the nearly-invisible purple symbol there. "I haven't seen you in a long time..."

The vampire continued his walk around the front of the Porsche 928S and leaned against the driver-side door. "Are you going to open for me, luv?"

The Porsche shivered almost imperceptibly as its door unlatched. Spike seized it eagerly and pulled it open, then thrust himself inside.

Warm, black leather seats received him; the steering wheel glinted in the dim shine of the streetlight, inviting Spike to lay his hands on it. He nestled himself in the rich upholstery, savoring the comfort and perfect fit as the seat shifted position to accommodate him.

He ran his hands over the black leather, caressing it, reveling in the sensuous, luxurious perfection of it. Then he pulled the door shut and raised his hands to the steering wheel, grasping and squeezing it gently.

"Oh, yes; I remember you very bloody well." The vampire reached down and touched the ignition button with one slender finger.

The car rumbled to life, engine purring like it belonged to a fine Italian sports car--which it did. Spike leaned his face against the steering wheel, letting himself feel the engine vibrations purr through his body.

He sat up and caressed the steering wheel, grinning from ear-to-ear.

"I've got this little problem, Dead End--poor Spike's been neutered. I've been 'fixed'--there's an inhibitor chip in my skull, I can't attack a human without getting the migraine from hell. But..." he leaned forward and all but purred at the car's dashboard. "you don't have any such problems, do you?"

"Just to double your pleasure," Spike said as he fondled the stick shift, "I figure you wouldn't be here if you didn't need my cooperation for a bit of mayhem--and mayhem is what I'm craving. Are we seeing eye-to-headlight on this?"

"I do believe we are," said a rich British voice from the speakers.

"Then what are we bloody well waiting for?" Spike shifted the Porsche into reverse and slammed into the car behind him, shifted gears and pulled out in the street with a roar of suddenly accelerating engine.

"It's midnight, I've got a half a pack of cigarettes, I'm driving the perfect killer car--HELLO, SUNNYDALE!"

--FIN--


	25. Disheveled

**Disheveled Dead End**

At the clank of metal feet on metal floor, Drag Strip looked up from the tuning job he was doing on his injectors.

"Deadster! What the slag did you _do _to yourself? And don't get that dross near me!" snapped the yellow Stunticon. The normally dark red and white Dead End was covered from helm to back wheels with sticky black goo. Small blobs of it slid off him and dropped on the floor.

"I tried to tell Motormaster that we needed more than Wildrider and I," Dead End replied dourly. "Where's Moto?"

"Yeah? I thought you just said you were doomed if you went on the mission," Drag Strip replied with a dismissive wave of one hand. The other hand held a wrench; he finished tightening a bolt in his chest, then held a meter to a connector there. Apparently satisfied, he started replacing chest panels.

"Well, yes, but that's what I meant," Dead End said.

Drag Strip watched in fascination as another blob of tarry black stuff slid down Dead End's elbow and hung suspended for a small eternity. The yellow Stunticon caught himself before he screamed at it to "Fall, slag you!" It was just that annoying.

"So where's Wildrider? He as big a mess as you?" Drag Strip sneered, putting his tools away. They were _his_ personal tools, he'd be slagged to small droplets of steel before he'd let someone else muck around with them.

"Ah, that's what I need Motormaster for," Dead End said, something a bit furtive in his tone and in the dimming glow of his visor.

"Whaddaya mean, you need Motormaster?" Drag Strip said, his tone shifting from contempt to puzzled curiousity.

"He's tall enough to reach Wildrider," Dead End replied, definitely evasive now.

"Right! I want to hear this," Drag Strip said. "And what is that stuff all over you?"

"Tar, or more precisely, asphalt," Dead End said, sighing.

"What, you mix it up with a wild road paver?" Drag Strip said, chuckling at Dead End's misfortune.

"Ah, you remember the mission Wildrider and I were sent on, to that California tourist attraction? The Autobots anticipated that we'd go for the tourist-hostages, unfortunately." His tone was positively lugubrious as he added, "They brought Grimlock. We both ended up in the pools."

_The worst part hadn't been flying through the air to land in the hideous stuff with a sticky 'squelch'--it had been hearing Grimlock say, "Me Grimlock know what that stuff is! Me Grimlock know what to do--Slag, do fire stuff!"_

"I managed to get out the other side before he set fire to them; Wildrider dove to avoid them. Unfortunately, the material gets more viscous the deeper you go..." Dead End shrugged.

"Wha-? Wait, pools? Of that.. goo? Where'd you find that?" Drag Strip asked, completely confused.

"A part of Los Angeles I never want to see again. I am still a bit curious as to what they herded at Rancho La Brea, though."

-- END --


	26. Excited

**Excited Dead End**

"This is pointless," Dead End said for the nineteenth time as Wildrider jumped up and down, cheering loudly. Below them and several thousand other cheering, screaming, blood-thirsty fans, the Predacons squared off against yet another team of Autobot prisoners.

"Aww, Deadster, you just got no sense of fun!" Wildrider slapped Dead End on the back; the 'clang' was drowned out by the sheer roar of the crowd. Wildrider's usual annoying yell seemed like simple conversation over the noise. "I keep tellin' ya, you need to get out more! This here is real culture, not that art crap you and the Dragster got into!"

Dead End tilted his head slightly, but did not turn to look directly at the red-faced, gray-bodied Stunticon. "Yes, a small group of fuel-starved, damaged, unarmed prisoners are herded into the arena so we can watch the Predacons tear them apart. So incredibly suspenseful, waiting to see if the body scraps will fall to the left or the right of the rivers of spilled energon. I'm so thrilled at the possibility that one of the Autobots might outrun Tantrum for five seconds."

"Deadster, you are ruining mah fun!" Wildrider's Texas twang came through more clearly when he was annoyed. He pouted and slugged back a can of energon. After squashing it flat and tossing it out into the crowd somewhere, he gave Dead End a conciliatory shrug of his shoulder wheels.

"Guess it would be more fun if the fights were more... I dunno..." The gray Stunticon gestured vaguely.

"Even?" Dead End suggested. "Not that that would make any difference in the end. Everyone dies, story over."

"Yeah, yeah--but what if the other guys were armed or something?" Wildrider said.

"Then it might be somewhat interesting," Dead End conceded. Random people in the audience getting shot--likely himself--could be considered 'interesting'. He wasn't prepared to escalate to 'fun'.

"Wouldn't that be a riot if the prisoners all escaped their cells and got weapons and ran around trying to shoot their way out and stuff?" Wildrider said, jumping up from his seat. He grabbed Dead End by the shoulder and tugged. "Come on, let's go!"

Dead End's visor flared with violet light and he scrambled from his seat to follow Wildrider, pushing his way past the oblivious, cheering spectators. "Yes, that would be a riot. Dare I ask what you are up to?"

"We're gonna make things interesting!" Wildrider yelled as he dragged Dead End into the currently-empty back tunnels and transformed to race down the ancient and grimy hallways.

"Do you have a clue where you're going?" Dead End asked as he rolled along behind Wildrider. It wasn't that he couldn't guess what Wildrider wanted to do; he just couldn't see what Wildrider could possibly accomplish in that direction.

"Yeah, lower levels where the gladiators and prisoners are. Cindersaur told me all about it--he got stuck with guard duty, has to miss the show," Wildrider yelled back. "YEE-HAAA!"

"Yee. Ha." Joy. Wildrider knew Cindersaur. Dead End guessed that it took one hooligan to know another.

He skidded to a halt just behind Wildrider as the latter suddenly stopped just short of a sealed elevator. The metal door was scarred and dull with oxidation, but the yellow and purple "Authorized Personnel Only" sign was fresh and plain.

"That requires an authorization key to use," Dead End pointed out mildly.

"And here's my authorization!" Wildrider transformed back into a robot and blew the control panel apart with his scattershot pistol. For good measure he blew the door open and jumped down the shaft. "GERONIMO!"

"Right, then. I'll be right along. I hope you realize you've doomed us both," Dead End called after Wildrider as he drifted down. He regarded the scarred, millenia-old doors that Wildrider had just blown apart; Megatron had built his Stunticons with far more firepower than the average Decepticon grunt--and with far less restraint. Or fear. What was it to the Earth-built elite if they destroyed Cybertronian relics that had stood for millions of years?

By the time he arrived at the bottom of the shaft, Wildrider was away out of sight; Dead End had to follow the sounds of screeching tires and shouts of "YEE-HAA!" The lower tunnels were dimmer and grimier than the upper works frequented by the arena patrons; what few lights still functioned were badly placed and far apart. In the shadows, the floor seemed black with ancient spilled lubricant and exhaust stains.

When Dead End reached Wildrider, the gray Stunticon was already in back-poundingly happy conversation with an ungainly purple and yellow Decepticon.

"Yeah, go for it!" Wildrider yelled, bouncing up and down. "Cinder-baby, we'll cover for ya, go watch the fight!"

"Yeah?" The ugly, spiky-armed Cindersaur grinned--a horrifying sight--and thumped Wildrider on the back. Dead End noticed the almost inaudible crackle of Wildrider's forcefields protecting him as metal clashed loudly against metal; his brother Stunticon was crazy, not stupid. The same could not be said of Cindersaur.

"Yeah! You're nuts, 'Rider, missing the fight, but you wanna be a chump, I ain't gonna stop you." Cindersaur laughed heavily and shuffled off towards the way they came in.

"Might want to use a different elevator. That one's broken," Dead End warned him. It wasn't that he wanted to spare Cindersaur any trouble; he just wanted the fire-spewing moron to go far, far away as soon as possible.

"Yeah? Gotcha. Suckers!" The Firecon turned down a different hallway and was lost from sight and shortly thereafter, radar.

"We're doomed," Dead End again pronounced once Cindersaur was out of audial and optical range. "He'll figure something wasn't kosher, you know, after you sent him away and then trouble starts."

"Wanna bet?" Wildrider said, smirking like Starscream while bouncing from one foot to the other.

"He'd have to be stupider than... than Brawl!"

Wildrider just smirked even more and started to roller-skate around the chamber backwards on his foot-wheels.

"Ah, I see. How does he avoid being taken for a drone?" Dead End asked sardonically.

Wildrider giggled. "He likes to set fires; that's how you tell!"

Around the periphery of the badly-lit chamber, and down a dark hall beyond it, scores of cells lined the walls--cells filled with battered and broken Autobot prisoners. The stench of overheated lubricants, burnt plastic and seared metal hung heavy in the air.

Dead End regarded the prisoners in their dimly-lit cells; the Autobots stared back at him and Wildrider with grim, silent faces and masks. The nearest several Bots were extensively scorched; blackened and heat-warped metal testified to Cindersaur's idea of entertainment.

"I think," Dead End told Wildrider, "I shall go find the gladiator's armory. There must be one here somewhere. Back in Megatron's day, both sides were armed, I hear."

"Make it quick, these guys are too slagging quiet!" Wildrider said, bouncing from one foot to the other again. "I liked it better outside."

"This was _your_ idea," Dead End felt obliged to point out as he sauntered out.

"Yeah, yeah, but it's too quiet. Hurry up!" Wildrider waved Dead End down the gloomy hall with a twitch of his gun, then turned to stare back at the prisoners in their cells.

They stared back at him until one of them, an orange and gray car-former, said, in a voice thick with hatred, "What are you looking at, Decepticon?"

"My next target," Wildrider said with manic giggle.

"I'm pretending to be Breakdown so I can freak out at all you guys lookin' at me and blow the place to hell!" Wildrider said, waving his scattershot gun around. He tossed off a few shots into the ceiling for emphasis, then jumped aside as chunks of metallo-ceramic rained down. "Whooo-hoo!"

"_I found it, turn left outside the entrance and it's the third hallway on the left, second door,_" Dead End radioed the other Stunticon._ "I even opened the door for you."_

_"_YEEE-HAAAA!" Wildrider screamed, "Down on your knee-joints, Bots!"--

He cut loose with a barrage of laser-fire from his scatter gun. "Armory's left and third, make your plans, all your base are belong to us!" Wildrider yelled at the cloud of dust and smoke obscuring everything, then ran away cackling madly before the Autobots picked themselves up and realized he hadn't hit any of them--but the nearest cells were all blown open.

Dead End was waiting for him at the elevator shaft. "We are so doomed."

* * *

The prisoner revolt and riot was glorious. Even Dead End found it interesting--fortunately, his forcefields held. Swindle took bets on both sides and ran with the money; Wildrider had all the noise and chaos he wanted, and Motormaster was almost congenial for several weeks.

The Autobots had their revenge on Cindersaur in the confusion; the Firecon was found crushed to junk and set on fire.

It was merest coincidence that Menasor had been fighting in the same area...

-- END --


	27. Exploring

**Exploring Dead End**

**

* * *

**

_Warning: implied slash_

_

* * *

  
_

"Radar clear," Dead End reported to Breakdown, who sped along the two-lane road just ahead of him. Breakdown was supposed to be the scout, and Dead End was just along as back-up; however, Dead End was the one with the radar. In practice, he ended up scouting.

Jungle loomed on either side, blocking out the view to either side; as winding as the road was, forward and backward were blocked to vision as well. Only a narrow slot of sky was in view for any distance. At least the Aerialbots weren't in range. Yet, thought Dead End dourly.

"Where's the turn-off?" Breakdown said snappishly. There were too many eyes peering out from the thatched wattle-and-lath huts they passed from time to time, he was sure of it. Eyes peering out of those dark windows, that he couldn't see, but could see him.

"Right about--there." Dead End suddenly threw on his breaks and slid into a bootlegger turn that sent him plunging violently down a twin-rut dirt track into the jungle.

Breakdown also skidded hard, then let him self roll and 'somehow' just bounce over the sliding chassis of his partner. "The energy source is this way?"

"The odd radar signals definitely are. We may find out soon--unless trees fall on us and crush us on the way in. It's probably an ambush, but since Megatron has ordered us to check out the energy source, check it out we must, though it be our doom," Dead End concluded.

The blue and cream Lambo made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snicker and nuzzled up to the bumpers of the dark red Porsche, before being bounced away by the rough road. "If they're after the same energy source, we might ambush _them!_"

"Plan fast. I'm picking up multiple vehicles up ahead, at the base of one of those odd hillocks they have all over the place," Dead End said. "They probably already know we're here and have heavy weaponry ready..."

"Transform and fly, Deadster. We'll flank them!" Breakdown said, transforming as he spoke. "Stay behind my usual arc," he added as he lifted off from the ground, his vibration rifle appearing in his hands.

Dead End followed him, transforming to robot mode and lifting off. His own concussion rifle materialized in his hands. "It's been good working with you, Breakdown."

"Hold off on the eulogy, Deadster," Breakdown said, a feral grin spreading across his face as he flew over the jungle canopy, just barely skimming the leaves. The taller treetops loomed over them like cumulous clouds over a jet.

"There!" he pointed toward a break in the canopy and swooped down. Dead End swung his rifle forward and followed; ahead of him, he could hear the cacophonious vibration of an engine horribly out of sync, gears and cams clashing as if to tear the engine apart. Breakdown's engine, however, wasn't tearing _itself_ apart; it tore other engines apart. His rifle merely focussed that power for greater range.

Men shouted and ran for cover, or jumped on to trucks as the two giant robots descended from the sky. Assault rifles chattered at them from the jungle; Breakdown pointed his rifle at the lead truck. Its engine screeched and then halted with a horrid bang; smoke trickled out from under the hood as dark-haired, bronze-skinned men piled out and ran for the jungle.

Dead End fired off a few desultory shots at the largest concentration of muzzle flashes; trees exploded into splinters and came crashing down. The chattering guns stopped amid screams; a few desultory shots from other directions and they, too, fell silent.

"I don't see what the Combaticons find so entertaining about these people," Dead End said dourly. "That wasn't a fight. It wouldn't have been a decent ambush even if they had surprised us." He seemed disappointed that his predictions of doom were unlikely to come true.

Breakdown laughed harshly. "Well, we could call the Autobots and tell them what we're up to! Would that be fun?"

"Oh yes, right up to the point where they disassemble our laser-riddled corpses," Dead End said, prodding one of the stalled trucks gingerly with his rifle. "Oh my. I think I found what they were digging up." He pulled the ragtop back to reveal a large box, carefully strapped down to the bed of the truck.

Breakdown tore back the canvas cover off the other truck. "More of these squishy creatures gawking--eh." Breakdown frowned at the truck's cargo, then threw a couple of the boxes to the ground, breaking them open. "Nothing but ordinance and digging tools."

He came over and scowled at Dead End's find. "How do you know it's not just more supplies?"

Dead End's visor brightened as he glanced at Breakdown. The battle-mask hid his expression, but his tone suggested a wide smirk. "Because it's _radiating_."

"Oh!" Breakdown quickly ripped off the box lid to reveal... leaves. "Leaves?" He pawed through the vegetation and his fingers _clinked_ against something much more substantial.

"Packing material," Dead End guessed. "No wild foam trees growing in this jungle."

"Yes!" Breakdown threw the leaves carelessly over his shoulder, liberally covering Dead End with impromptu camouflage, and quickly revealed a man-sized jade cylinder, intricately carved. "What is that?"

"I don't know, but Megatron wants it," Dead End replied.

"How nice of the humans to dig it up for us!" Breakdown said with a quick smirk. "Archaeology is useful, isn't it?"

Dead End looked at the load of ammo and machine-guns in the other truck. "I don't think these fellows were archaeologists, exactly."

Breakdown followed his gaze. "Tomb robbers! I beat that game!" He pointed at the suspiciously regular hillock and the tunnel dug into the side of it. "Let's see if there's more!"

"Mmm." Dead End looked up at the sun. "We're ahead of schedule. Plenty of time to check for more, and probably have the entire pyramid cave in and bury us."

Breakdown snickered as he trotted toward the tomb robber's crude excavation. "Just keep talking that way!" He halted just at the entrance. "One more thing..."

"...when this rock buries us, the mysterious radiations will block our emergency beacons and no one will know where we are until long after our fuel runs down? Not to mention that in this humidity, we'll probably start rusting while still alive, helpless in stasis lock," Dead End intoned as he followed Breakdown.

Breakdown quivered with subtle vibrations, his eyes bright. "Oh yes, that too, but..." His fingers drifted up to touch Dead End's mask. "_There are no cameras to watch us in the dark!_"

* * *

Indeed, there were not, nor were there any witnesses to contradict the two Stunticons' tale of a prolonged pursuit through the jungle before retrieving Megatron's prize. Their scuffed and dirty appearances only lent credence to their report; after all, Dead End and Breakdown _had_ retrieved the mysterious energy source, which was what mattered.

It still bothered Motormaster that he didn't know what his two teammates were looking so damn _happy_ about...

-- The End --


End file.
